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2V^o. 84 


25 Cts. 



Copyright, 1885, 
y Hakper & Brothers 


July 16, 1886 


Subscription Price, 
per Year, 52 Numbers, $15 


Entered at the Post-Office at New York, as Second-class Mail Matter 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS 

By jane STANLEY 


daughter of the gods^ divinely tall^ 
And most divinely fair''* 




Boohs you may hold readily in your hand are the most useful^ after all 

Dr. Johnson 


NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

1886 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


1877 . 

OsTEND in August. A blue sky, a blue sea, a long stretch of 
white sands dotted thickly with bathers, in more or less ugly cos- 
tumes, and gayly dressed visitors, who looked very picturesque be- 
side them. A few seeking shelter from the burning sun under the 
roof of the etablissement — a great many outside, over coffee and 
beer, or drinking pink sirup out of tall glasses. Men smoking, 
women with dainty little baskets making a pretence at work. Hol- 
iday-making the visible aim and end of life. 

And, under the distant eyes of the digue , an interesting little 
drama drawing to a mysterious close. For three days the lovers, 
or the bride and bridegroom, as some would have them, had enjoyed 
a popularity due partly to the girl’s beauty and partly to the diffi- 
culty of getting a good look at her. And now they stood on the 
glaring white sand, out of hearing, yet not so far but that their feat- 
ures could be distinguished with a fairly good glass. The girl had 
suddenly sprung away from her companion’s side ; her fair face had 
grown white and her eyes were dilated. The man’s features showed 
less agitation, but, if his attitude was fairly construed, he was urg- 
ing some soothing plea or other. Then the girl turned and hurried 
rapidly away. She was seen no more. For a few hours the man 
was once or twice observed, searching apparently for his lost com- 
panion. Then he too vanished, and, except as a mystery to be 
talked over, the little drama passed away. 


1882 ^ 

CHAPTER I. 

Mr. Grey, Q.C., sat in the big square porch of the Hotel Imperial 
at Boulogne, passively enjoying the pleasure of having nothing to 
do. It was in the early daysK)? the long vacation, and idleness was 
still charming. He had crossed from Folkestone the week before, 
intending to go on to Paris. But Boulogne had a spell for him that 


2 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


neither Paris nor any other place could possess. It had been the 
holiday home of his boyhood. Here he had first known the delight 
of finding all things new and strange. The barren country round 
Boulogne had been romantic in the eyes of the London boy, and he 
could not now look at it indifferently. He remembered everything 
about those early days with the zest of a man who has never lived 
a second youth in his children. For the rich, successful barrister 
was unmarried, and at fifty was supposed to have put all thoughts 
of marriage from him. He had never really thought much about 
it. Perhaps he had gone on supposing that he should some day 
have a wife and children, like other men, till the time for seeking 
such things had almost passed. In the mean time he was well con- 
tent with the divers excitements of his calling. His sister Emme- 
line kept house for him and made him very comfortable. She was 
not the most congenial companion, it is true. He would scarcely 
have cared to spend the long vacation with her at Folkestone. But 
the domestic machinery worked smoothly, and he gave her the cred- 
it of it. Mr. Grey was a liberal man, who made money freely and 
spent it freely in an unostentatious way, and this had perhaps more 
to do with his comfort than he supposed. 

A bright-looking French honne appeared in the door-way. Mr. 
Grey thought what a picturesque figure she was. She gave a letter 
to the porter. “For Mr. Grey,” he heard her say, to his great sur- 
prise. He turned to ask her a question, but she was walking brisk- 
ly away. Then he took the letter and read : 

“5 Rue des Pipots, August 16^^. 

“My dear Sir, — We have seen your name in the visitors’ list, 
and my husband says he knew you well in years gone by. Do you 
remember Frank Dogan ? It would, I am sure, give him great 
pleasure to see you, but he is too ill to come to you — too ill even 
to write. I fear that he will not be spared to us for many weeks 
longer. Yours truly, Annette Dogan.” 

Did he not remember Frank Dogan? Had he not been thinking 
of him only the moment before? It was impossible to recall the old 
days at Boulogne without thinking of Frank Dogan. Here he had 
first made his acquaintance. Together they had made the great dis- 
covery that flounders were to be caught at Wimereux, and that the 
Liane was only good for boating. They had fenced together under 
the eye of Monsieur Constantin. They had wandered over every 
part of the surrounding country which young legs could reach in a 
long day’s march. They had never lost sight of each other till after 
they had both been called. Then their lives parted. That of James 
Grey into the good graces of the attorneys, and all the good things 
that follow thereon; that of Frank Dogan into journalism, matri- 
mony, and subsequent impecuniosity. His pretty, fragile wife’s 
health had taken him abroad. Mr. Grey remembered her well; but 
surely her name was Mary, not Annette. The correspondence of 
the frieuds had dwindled rapidly and then ceased. The busy man 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


3 


had little time to spare, the idle one none at all. For the last ten 
years, at least, Mr. Grey had heard nothing of Frank Dogan. At 
rare intervals he might wonder what had become of him ; but Bou- 
logne had recalled Frank Dogan even before the letter came to re- 
vive the old friendship. 

It was scarcely a pleasant summons to renew on the edge of the 
grave an intimacy which had long been dead ; but Mr. Grey prepared 
to obey it readily, if not very willingly. It was long since he had 
found his way to the Rue des Pipots, but he knew every street and 
turning in Boulogne. 

A shadow' had fallen on its brightness now. The gay port, the 
bustling market-place did not look quite as they had done that morn- 
ing. For his old companion was dying! He had done very well 
without him all these years, yet it hurt him to know that. Mr. Grey 
felt himself full of life and strength, with years of work in him. It 
seemed very pitiable to be cut down in one’s prime. Looking at 
the dingy house in the dull street, he feared that fortune had not 
dealt kindly with his friend during the past years. 

The French bonne opened the door and showed him into a little 
room, which to his English eyes looked tawdry and comfortless. A 
pretty brown-eyed girl, with something of French grace and taste in 
her simple dress, came forward to meet him, wdth a very lovely 
child of four or five years old at her side. 

“ I must introduce myself,” she said, holding out her hand. “ I 
am Mrs. Dogan.” 

“ And is this your little girl?” asked Mr. Grey. He was more at- 
tracted by the child than by his friend’s young wife. He saw a lit- 
tle head ‘sunning over with curls,’ and a tiny rose-bud face held up 
to be kissed, while two starry eyes looked at him confidingly as the 
child asked, 

“ Are you a doctor?” 

Her question suggested his own. 

“What is the matter with your husband?” he said, turning to 
Mrs. Dogan. 

“Consumption.” 

“ Is he kept to his bed?” 

“Not always; but this is one of his bad days, and he has only 
been able to sit up for a few hours. Will you come to his room?” 

Mrs. Dogan led the way across the passage, and opened the door 
of a small bedroom. A tall girl rose from the bedside and came 
out as Mr. Grey went in, but he did not look .at her. He could see 
nothing but an old man with white hair and beard sitting propped 
up in bed. At first he asked himself, “Could that be Frank Do- 
gan?” But as he looked the face came back to him. The sharp 
outline was but an exaggeration of the handsome features he re- 
membered. In the early days James had told his friend that he re- 
sembled an eagle. The eagle look was very conspicuous now, 

“ You would not have known me? Time has dealt more hardly 
with me than with you,” said the sick man, holding out a hand like 
old ivory. Then, after answering a few questions as to his health, 


4 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


his doctors and their treatment, he went on, "‘I am ver3r glad to see 
you. Do you know that I had almost made up my mind to write 
to you a month ago? But it is difficult to write to a man after ten 
years’ silence, especially when you want to ask a favor of him.” 

Mr. Grey was used to have people ask favors of him. And com- 
paratively few asked in vain. 

“What can I do for you?” he said, promptly. “I shall be very 
glad to help you any way I can.” 

‘ ‘ I want you to be a friend to my two girls when I am gone. 
The little I have to leave is settled on my wife. My eldest daughter 
must go out as a governess. Perhaps you could help her to a good 
place. My little one must be educated. Will you see that she is 
sent to a good cheap school, and look after her from time to time?” 

“You have a very charming little girl,” said Mr. Grey. Then he 
added, not without a trace of emotion, ‘ ‘ Make yourself easy about 
her, Frank; but of course her mother would have to be consulted.” 

“My wife is^young,” said Mr. Dogan, “and her married life has 
been a dull one. I cannot expect her to waste much time in mourn- 
ing for me, and, if she wishes to marry again, the child will be a 
hinderance. Besides, her friends and her interests are in France, 
and I wish my little girl to be an Englishwoman. I do not think 
you need fear opposition from Annette in any plans that will be for 
little Mara’s benefit. ” 

“ Mara. What a strange name for that dear little girl!” 

“ I named her so because I felt, like Naomi, that I had been bit- 
terly dealt with about the time of her birth. Perhaps it is hard on 
the child to bear such a name through life. You can call her by 
her mother’s name, if you like. She was christened Annette Mara.” 

There was silence for a few moments. Mr. Grey thought that he 
could see it all. Something in his friend’s tone showed that his 
young wife was little enough to him. Yet he must have loved her 
once, for he had settled his all upon her, to the injury of his chil- 
dren. It must have been a light-minded man’s love for a pretty 
face, and, by the time his child was born, he had found out his mis- 
take. 

“ Have you any children?” asked Mr. Dogan. 

“No, I have never married.” Then, after a pause, “ I remember 
your first wife very well. And your eldest girl must be a gover- 
ness, you say?” Mr. Grey was familiar enough with the ideas of toil 
and strife. He knew the world was not a rose-garden, but some- 
how the idea of tha^ delicate young wife’s child toiling among 
strangers jarred on him. 

“I see no help for it,” said the father. “Yerena is clever and 
better educated than most girls. She is grave, too, and steady be- 
yond her years. There is but one drawback — ” Mr. Dogan coughed, 
and began to move his pillows which had slipped down. He could 
not breathe easily in a recumbent position. Mr. Grey tried to help 
him. 

“Do not trouble. I will ring for Yerena.” He touched a hand- 
bell beside him, and, before it ceased to sound, Yerena was in the 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


5 


room. She exchanged a pleasant greeting with the stranger, ar- 
ranged her father’s pillows, and was gone. 

Mr. Grey drew a long breath. Out of his memory started the 
2 

“ A daughter of the gods, divinely tall 
And most divinely fair.” 

Beauty is common enough, but perfect beauty is so rare that the 
sight of it without preparation is startling. Mr. Grey actually won- 
dered how he could have stayed in Boulogne without hearing the 
fame of this marvellous girl. He wondered still more how her fa- 
ther could have spoken of her without an allusion to her surpassing 
loveliness. Mr. Dogan had prepared his coup de thmtre. His daugh- 
ter’s entry had completed his sentence more effectively than words 
could have done. 

Mr. Grey’s astonishment rushed to his lips in the exclamation, 

“A governess!” 

“What else can she do?” asked the father. 

“ She is sure to marry.” 

“I don’t know that. A penniless girl cannot pick and choose, 
and my Yerena is somewhat hard to please. She might have mar- 
ried more than once, and married well if she had chosen. I almost 
wish now that I had pressed it more strongly. But I did not know 
that I should get my marching orders so soon.” Mr. Dogan was 
coughing a good deal no\^ and Mr. Grey felt that he had stayed 
long enough. 

“I must not tire you,” he said, “but I will come again to-mor- 
row.” Then, taking his old friend’s hand, he said, earnestly, “Do 
not disturb yourself about the future of either of your daughters. 
I will look after them.” 

“You have taken a cruel load off my mind. I have been an idle 
fellow all my days, and now on my death-bed I am casting my cares 
on other shoulders. There seems something mean in it, but I am 
not ungrateful.” 

Mr. Grey walked back to his hotel thinking less of his old friend 
than of his old friend’s daughters. He did not usually covet his 
neighbor’s children. He had often wondered at the admiring wor- 
ship lavished by parents on very commonj)lace offspring. But 
Frank Dogan might well be a glad and proud father. Yet he 
seemed to feel his girls only a care, and he had called one of them 
Mara in the bitterness of his heart. Mr. Grey thought for a mo- 
ment how those two sisters would brighten his own home. He 
could easily take the younger one into his care’ Emmeline must 
love such a little darling. But though Emmeline’s presence might 
remove some difficulties in the way of his adopting an older daugh- 
ter, it would create others. He laughed to himself at the thought of 
her consternation if he proposed to become guardian to the splendid 
Yerena. He must give the girls an allowance on which to live com- 
fortably with their mother, but he might stipulate that they should 
be within easy reach, so that he could keep something like a father’s 
watch over them. 


6 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Next day Mr. Dogan was better. His friend found him sitting 
up on the sofa in the little salon with his two girls beside him. Mrs. 
Dogan was out. Mr. Grey knew that, for he had just passed her in 
the Grande Rue. He had observed the pretty, coquettish woman, 
who was talking and laughing with a good-looking young French- 
^nan, before he discovered that she was his friend’s wife. Then he 
had thought her companion rather too attentive. The old friends 
soon drifted into a talk about their boyish days at Boulogne. Mr. 
Grey remembered the most. 

“You always had a tremendous memory,’' said Mr. Dogan. 
“You beat me, and yet I have kept memory alive by frequent vis- 
its to the old places. I have taken Verena to see them till she knows- 
our old haunts almost as well as I do myself. But poor little Mara 
has never been here before, and I have been too ill since we came 
to take her about.” 

“You’ll take me when you are better, won’t you, papa? I want 
to see the valley and the chateau.” 

“ Yes, and we will ask Mr. Grey to go too. The Chateau d’Epre- 
ville was his home, not mine, you know. I was only a visitor there.” 

“But they have taken away the spring and the horse-pond that 
you and papa used to fall into,” cried Mara. She was sitting oh 
Mr. Grey’s knee now, with her arm round his neck. Yerena had 
slipped away. 

“ Put down that little chatterbox if she tires you,” said her father. 

‘ ‘ She is trying to make up for her sister, who has cultivated the 
golden gift of silence till it has become a habit. Yet no one can 
talk better than Verena when she pleases.” 

‘ ‘ Veena knows everything, ” said Mara, promptly. She had a way 
of joining in the conversation of her elders which might have made 
her seem a prig if she had not looked so like a flower. As she spoke 
Verena entered, followed by the tea-tray. She looked at Mara in 
the stranger’s arms and gave him the sweetest smile he had yet won 
from her. Then she gave him the flrst good cup of tea he had tasted 
since he crossed the Channel. But he drank it with compunction, 
for he guessed by her cheeks that she had been boiling the kettle. 
He would have thought nothing of having his tea made or even his 
dinner cooked by an ordinary-looking girl, but the slightest service 
rendered by beauty seems an overwhelming grace. 

Mr. Grey did not think the house or the street dull as he left it 
to-day, and he wished for to-morrow afternoon. 

Next morning, just as he had flnished dressing, he saw a child 
run past the hotel. It was his little friend. 8he was looking back 
as if trying to entice some one to follow her, and Mr. Grey expected 
to see her mother. But the quiet, black flgure was too tall for Mrs. 
Dogan. 

“ She cannot make herself look dowdy, but she has tried her best,” 
said Mr. Grey to himself, with a glance at the sheltering hat and 
thick gauze veil. “ Poor child, she is preparing for her part of gov- 
erness! But she shall never have to come to that. What long hair,” 
he thought, as he saw two wet plaits hanging far below her waist. 


7 



A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


In his masculine ignorance he did not know the quantity those tight 
plaits represented. Yerena’s hair, unloosed, might well have brought 
half the idlers of Boulogne in her train. 

Mara kept looking back, but Verena walked on discreetly till she 
had passed the houses and reached the quiet sands. Then she sud- 
denly gave chase. Mr. Grey could almost hear the shout with which 
the child greeted her captor. Then away the two went towards 
Wimereux. Mr. Grey followed. He always walked at this hour, 
but usually in the opposite direction. The girls kept well ahead of 
him. He could not for appearance sake scud over the sands like 
Verena, otherwise he would soon have covered the space between 
them; for time had as yet told only on his outer man. He looked, 
no doubt, a fogy, whom Verena could meet without a shade of re- 
serve, and whom Mara called “a dear old man.” She ran to meet 
him directly they turned, and took his hand, inviting him to go back 
with them. But Mara could not long walk quietly. She ran back- 
ward and forward like a little dog. Verena caught at her intervals 
of absence to ask Mr. Grey about the subject nearest her heart. 

“ Do you think my father so very ill?” she began. 

He would have given a great deal to say no. But the habit of 
giving a genuine opinion when asked for was not to be shaken otf. 

“ I am not a doctor, to judge of such things,” he said; “your fa- 
ther looks ill, but his voice is strong; he seems to have power about 
him still. I do not think he is quite so ill as Mrs. Dogan supposes.” 

For Mr. Grey had thought the account in her letter, which limited 
the invalid’s life to a few weeks, seemed somewhat exaggerated. 
This was rather hard on Annette, who had written it at her hus- 
band’s dictation. 

“Annette thinks there is no hope,” said Verena. “I cannot be- 
lieve it is so bad as that. ” 

It almost sounded as if she meant that Heaven could not be so 
cruel. 

“I want him to have another opinion,” said Mr. Grey. “I have 
got the name of the best physician here, and I have thought of get- 
ting a specialist whom I know from London.” 

Verena’s face lighted up. 

“Oh! do make him see them; a really good doctor might make 
him well again.” 

“I fear scarcely that, but he might do a good deal to prolong 
life.” 

“My father is so old for consumption.” 

Mr. Grey knew that consumption had its victims at all ages. He - 
would not flatter Verena’s hopes too much. 

“That is why I hope its progress may possibly be slower,” he 
said, “ if, as we trust he may, your father lives till the winter — ” 

Verena gave a little cry. 

“Ah, you are too kind to say so, but you think as badly of him 
as Annette does, or as he does himself.” 

She bowed her head, and her veil hid her face. Mr. Grey turned 
away to Mara, and kept her amused for some minutes. Then he 


8 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


came back to Verena. His voice was at all times musical and pleas- 
ant, but there was a fatherly kindness and tenderness in it now. 

“I did not mean to destroy your hopes,” he said. “I have known 
consumptive patients live for years. And I was going to say that 
your father should go to some warmer climate for the winter ; it 
might make all the difference.” 

“Do tell him so. He is never willing to take any trouble or make 
any expense for himself. What is anything worth compared with 
his health?” cried Yerena. Then, as Mara came back to them, she 
added, “ You will come and see him to-day, won’t you? Your visits 
do him so much good; and he likes to talk about old times.” 

They were nearly opposite the hotel ; Mr. Grey took his dismissal. 
He made Mr. Dogan see a physician that day, but his report was 
not encouraging. It amounted to a sentence of death — the time 
was uncertain, Mt he could not say that it might not be very soon. 

The sick man at least had no hopes to be destroyed. 

“I shouldn’t believe them if they gave me a long day,” he re- 
marked to his friend. “I shall not trouble you long, but you may 
like to know that you have made my last little bit of life much 
brighter. Don’t you tell Verena what the doctor says,” he added, 
“she may take it better from me.” 

Mr. Grey saw Verena later. 

“We must try the specialist now,” he said, gently. 

In a few days the great man had come and gone. He left a pre- 
scription but no hope behind. 

“We can only do our best to make his life as pleasant as possible 
now,” was Verena’s sorrowful conclusion. 

Mr, Grey endeavored to help her in this. He spent hours every 
day in the Rue des Pipots, talking his best and trying to amuse and 
cheer his old friend. Mr. Dogan always brightened under the com- 
panionship. After their first conversation, he never referred again 
to the charge that he had given his friend. They were seldom alone, 
for Verena scarcely left her father. She would sit quietly by while 
the friends talked. Sometimes her father would draw her into the 
conversation and lead her out, with what Mr. Grey thought very 
pardonable pride. 

“This is my pupil,” he would say; “I could not afford to send 
her to school, but I will back her against any Girton scholar of them 
all for knowing what she means and how to say it. She could stand 
a pretty stiff examination in a good many subjects,” he would add. 

Mr. Grey thought Verena something more than well-educated. 
She had certainly profited by association with her father, for Mr. 
Dogan was a scholar, though an idle one. And the wandering life 
they had led, spent chiefiy in foreign towns, had taught her a good 
deal besides modern languages. But only nature could have given 
her a certain originality of thought. She was not a bit like other 
girls, and she seemed so intensely in earnest about everything. 

“Was Verena always grave?” he asked one day, finding himself 
alone with her father. 

“Always a grave, earnest girl,” was the reply, “ but she is sad as 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


0 


well as grave now. You see her under a cloud. We have been 
more to each other than most fathers and daughters, and my poor 
girl cannot reconcile herself to our separation. I wish she would 
take it as philosophically as my wife does;” and he gave a some- 
what cynical laugh. 

Mr. Grey had not formed a very high opinion of Mrs. Dogan. He 
thought her vain and frivolous, an indifferent wife, a careless moth- 
er. She liked to go out gayly dressed to the etaUmement and oth- 
er lively resorts. Too often the good-looking young Frenchman 
was her companion; yet he never came to the house, neither did 
Mr. Grey hear his name mentioned. All domestic cares were 
thrown on Yerena’s shoulders. She ordered the little household, 
looked to the invalid’s comfort, took more than half the care of the 
child. She was the willing horse. Annette seemed almost to oc- 
cupy the position of a visitor in the house — a very pleasant, amiable 
visitor, who was on good terms with the family ; for there never 
seemed a jar between the two women. 

Mr. Grey had often wondered how his friend’s marriage came 
about. Perhaps his face expressed his feelings, for Mr. Dogan went 
on: 

“I dare say you wonder that, with such a companion as Yerena, 
I ever wanted a second wife. You especially, who have been con- 
tent to do without a wife all your days. But Yerena was a child 
when I married. Annette was her governess,” he added. 

“How old is Yerena now?” 

“Just twenty-one, and Annette is eight-and-twenty, though she 
does not look it. We have been married over five years.” 

Mr. Grey sometimes wished for her own sake that Yerena would 
take a walk or amuse herself while he was with her father. He 
proposed it to her one day, but she did not seem to feel her impris- 
onment. 

“I can scarcely bear to lose one hour of his company now,” she 
said, “ and he likes to have me. My morning walk is quite enough 
for me.” 

Her morning walk was a regular institution, as Mr. Grey knew. 
It was as regular as her morning dip in the sea, and it was evidently 
her one great pleasure in the day. She always seemed younger ana 
gayer when she was out with little Mara than at any" other time. 
Mr. Grey often met them on the sands. Mara would run to meet 
him, and make him walk back with them, all the way, as she said. 
Mr. Grey never went into the house at that early hour. He would 
walk back to his breakfast, and, as he walked, the market-place and 
the old streets seemed to be bathed in a light brighter than even that 
of his boyish days. He had ceased to regret those days or to think 
them so very happy now. A few weeks of daily visits to the Rue 
des Pipots, a few weeks of morning walks on the sands, had changed 
the appearance of all things to Mr. Grey. 

One bright morning he walked as usual towards Wimereux,‘but 
no two sisters appeared. He lingered much longer than usual, then 
walked slowly to the Rue des Pipots, looked at the house, and re- 


10 


A DAtJGHTER OE THE GODS. 


turned. There was no golden light over the place that day, and the 
hours dragged heavily till he could pay his usual visit. 

A very trifling cause had prevented the girls from bathing ; they 
had walked to a farm just out of Boulogne to get something for 
their father. But the disappointment had taught Mr. Grey some- 
thing. He was getting too fond of Verena. For his chance of win- 
ning this perfect woman seemed to him small. He could scarcely 
expect Verena to fall in love with him, and he felt that she was no 
commonplace girl to be won by the offer of a good home and a set- 
tlement. If it were not in the very nature of love to inspire hope, 
Mr. Grey would certainly have left Boulogne before the mischief 
went further. He was considered by his friends to know his own 
mind better than most people, but in his present difficulty he let 
himself drift with circumstances, as the weakest man might have 
done. 

He continued to visit his friends daily, to walk on the sands be- 
fore breakfast, to count the hours between his meetings with Vere- 
na, to think of nothing, care for nothing, but the girl he scarcely 
dared to woo. He could not cut Verena altogether out of his life 
if he wished, for he had promised her father to look after her. And 
there seemed something ungenerous in offering unwelcome addresses 
to a girl who might soon be dependent on him. Yet it would be 
even more difficult to offer them after he had made a claim on her 
gratitude. Mr. Grey’s love was too real to be selfish. He believed 
that he could make Verena happy if she would only trust him to do 
so. But if Verena would not have 7wm, he would fain give her all 
good things without himself. He longed to make her life bright 
and pleasant to her. To a man used to live in a certain amount of 
luxury, and accustomed to see women well dressed, the Dogans’ 
poor way of living, the cheap simplicity of Verena’s dress, her en- 
tire lack of ornaments seemed pitiable. He wished that he could 
give Verena handsome clothes and jewellery as easily as he gave 
Mara toys and bonbons. This was a pleasure which he often al- 
lowed himself. He had given presents to other children, but he had 
never seen anything so pretty as the ecstasy of joy and gratitude 
with which Mara received his gifts. 

She was the petted darling of the house, but it was a house in 
which money had always been scarce, and everything came to her 
with the delightful charm of novelty. Once Mr. Grey went so far 
as to give her a little French dress, but this was to please the mother 
rather than the child, for Annette loved finery and seemed proud of 
Mara’s beauty. Mr. Grey had early won Annette’s good graces, 
and he was learning to like her, as he liked every one about Verena. 
For this sober, middle-aged man had reached that abject condition 
when any proximity to the rose confers a charm. 

It would be too much to say that this man of fifty had never 
thought himself in love before ; but love had left no mark in his life, 
which had been in a sense loveless and graceless. He passed with 
some for a cynic, and there did indeed, beneath his good-nature, lie 
a stratum of cynicism. A misanthrope he never was, but the con- 


A CAtTGHTEH OF THE GODS. 


11 


temptuous optimism of a world-hardened, honest, aciite man brings 
none of the refreshment which comes of sympathetic romance and 
love. 

His love for Verena was revealing him to himself: he knew that 
the tenderness and trust which had been with him occasional emo- 
tions, were capable of tilling his life and becoming present, abiding 
motives. For the first time he suffered all the hopes and fears and 
pangs of love. He was far past caring that his old friends might 
laugh at him ; that his sister might resent his marriage to a girl 
much younger than herself* He was past regretting the old life 
which had been so pleasant, the easy old habits which must be 
given up and exchanged for the anxieties and excitements of a new 
career. Everything was merged in the one overwhelming feeling 
that, sooner or later, masters most strong natures which are capable 
of forgetting self completely in another. 


CHAPTER II. 

No one seemed to guess Mr. Grey’s secret. But one day it came 
out. Mr. Dogan had suffered a slight relapse, and was kept to his 
room. When Mr. Grey called he sent Verena away. 

‘ ‘ Go out in the air, ” he said, ‘ ‘ or lie down if you like, but, anyhow, 
get a change from my sick-room.” 

Presently he began: 

“ I have been settling my worldly affairs, and I have named you 
as Mara’s guardian. Perhaps I ought to have asked you first, but 
I think you gave me leave. We have scraped together five hundred 
pounds for the poor child’s fortune ; it is all I have to give, and I 
have robbed my elder daughter to do that. I think I told you that 
my little property is settled on Annette?” 

“With reversion to her child, I presume?” 

“No, it is Annette’s absolutely. You will think that a mistake. 
But I have always made a muddle of my money-matters. ” 

“And has Verena nothing from her mother?” 

“ No, Verena is penniless.” Then, after a slight pause, Mr. Dogan 
went on : “I may as well make a clean breast of it, though you will 
perhaps think worse of me. Verena had a thousand pounds from 
her mother when she came of age, but of her own free-will she gave it 
to me. Of course I ought not to have let her give it. Half of it went 
to pay an old debt, the other half is to make that provision for Mara 
of which I spoke. I love my elder daughter better than anything 
in the world, yet I have let her impoverish herself, for I feel that 
the little one wants money even more than she does. I mean in 
the very likely case of her mother marrying again. Don’t think 
that I wish to speak hardly of my wife. Annette has a great many 
good points, and we have always got on well enough together; but 
she is not a person whose discretion I can trust. I would rather not 


12 


A DAtJGHTER OF THE GODS. 


leave even her own child in her hands. And though I know that 
Verena might have a home with her so long as Annette had one to 
offer, I would rather they did not continue to live together. I don’t 
know what you will think of me now I have told you all this.” 

“And I don’t know what you will think of me,” said Mr. Grey, 
“when I tell you that, for my own peace of mind, I dare not see 
too much of your daughter. If 1 were younger, I might hope to 
win her for my wife. As it is, I dare not even ask her.” 

Mr. Dogan was a good actor. He had wished and schemed for 
this ever since he had found his friend a bachelor; he had watched 
the working of a spell which needed no help from his hand, yet his 
manner showed nothing but a faint surprise. He was exhausted 
by too much talking, and spoke languidly. 

“I don’t know whether you are too diffident. I cannot even 
guess how my daughter might regard you as a suitor. You have 
been a sort of good providence to us all, and I know that she likes 
you thoroughly. For my own part I would give her to you gladly, 
and I believe that you would suit her better than a younger man. 
Of course I can understand that you would not like to risk being 
refused by a girl.” 

“I don’t mind that in the least, so far as my dignity is concerned; 
but I wish to be her friend under any circumstances, and I am afraid 
that our relations must be less easy and pleasant if she knows me to 
be a lover.” 

“ Would you like me to sound her on the subject? I don’t mean 
to betray your confidence, but to speak as if from my own observa- 
tion. Verena is so frank with me that I shall know directly whether 
you have any chance. And if you decide on dropping the matter 
for the present, she will only think I deceived myself. In any case 
you must give her a little more time.” 

Mr. Grey considered for a moment, then said, 

“ I think your plan a good one ; but, much as I wish to marry your 
daughter, I don’t want you to put any constraint on her. I would 
not have her sacrificed. And believe me that in any case I will do 
my best to serve her interests. ” 

Mr. Dogan promised, but did he keep his word? If so, how was 
it that an hour later Verena was beside him weeping as no one would 
have thought that quiet girl could weep? Passionate rebellion was 
gradually giving way to a despairing submission. For Mr. Dogan 
was relentless. 

“Verena, you have always trusted me, trust me now; it is the 
last thing I shall ask. I have been a bad father, selfish and careless, 
but I have always loved you dearly, you — and Mara. And I shall 
die in more peace than I deserve if I can leave you in such security 
as this. You have never been selfish; think of me and think of 
Mara. ” 

“I do think of Mara, ’’cried Verena, with a strange, passionate 
thrill in her voice; “ if I did not I would not, even for your sake, do 
this thing. But it need not be yet.” 

This was her first sign of yielding, and Mr. Dogan seized it. 


I 


I A DAUGHTEE OF THE GODS. 13 

“No, it need not be yet, if you promise me that it shall be some 
day, though I may not be here to enforce it. I know how good a 
^ thing this is for you; I cannot see you reject it. Some day you 
will think like me. ” 

Yerena was calm now. She smiled incredulously; then, turning 
to her father with a look of gentle entreaty, she said, 

“May I tell him our story?” 

Mr. Dogan started up in a sort of fury. 

“No,” he almost screamed, “neither now nor when I am gone. 
I forbid you, Yerena, forbid you absolutely. Foolish girl! would 
you undo all that I have done? would you break all your promises? 
i If you did, I would never see your face again.” 

He shook his hand at her; his look and manner expressed more 
; passion than his words. But they did not seem to move Yerena, who 
I looked at him with something like defiance. Only when his excite- 
ment suddenly died out, and he fell back on his pillow a feeble, 

I broken-down old man, she threw her arms round him with a sudden 
i revulsion of feeling. 

j “ Oh, forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you. But I hate con- 
, cealments and deceit. We have had so much in the old life, I want- 
' ed to have everything fair and open in the new.” 

' “It cannot be,” said her father, kindly, for he knew that he had 
conquered; “and, after all, why should you feel the concealment? 
You, at least, are sinless in the matter. Come, you have borne your 
■ burden bravely hitherto, you must bear it to the end. Believe me, 

. you will soon feel it very light. ” 

Yerena shook her head. Hers was no slight, buoyant nature to 
grow used to a burden. She felt as if it would become heavier, and 
crush her at the last. 

h It was impossible for Mr. Dogan to sound the depth of his daugh- 
; ter’s heart. He thought only of bending her to his will. Yet anoth- 
er argument presented itself. 

I , “ Do not imagine, ” he said, ‘ ‘ that even when I am gone you have 
only yourself to consider, Mara must stand or fall with you. And 
Mara, poor child, need never know anything except through j^our 
^ folly.” 

Yerena looked up with a sudden dismay. 

Mr. Dogan saw that his shaft told, and went on, cheerfully : 

“ And now you have broken our compact, and spoken on a sub- 
ject which was never to be so much as hinted at between us. Do 
not let it happen again.” 

' Yerena was entirely subdued now. She had her father’s strong 
will, but not her father’s unscrupulous determination to tread down 
all obstacles in the way of his own wishes. Nature had made her con- 
scientious. If her father sometimes led her astray, it was because he 
knew how to appeal to the strength of her affections, not to any weak- 
ness of her will or of her moral character. The two whom she loved 
were so feeble that all tender instincts moved her to consider them. 
Yerena had never thought of Mr. Grey as a lover, and it had not been 
her father’s policy to open her eyes till now. She had liked him 


14 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


for his kindness to them all, but especially to little Mara. Now she 
liked him rather less, for it seemed as if he expected to be paid. She 
had fought against the position he offered, and accepted it. Now, 
as her father knew, there would be no wavering, and outwardly, at 
least, there would be no shrinking. She would go resolutely to meet 
her fate. 

The girl of twenty-one seemed unmoved when she met Mr. Grey 
next morning. The man of fifty felt fluttered and agitated as a boy. 
He had longed for, yet dreaded, this meeting. Surely Verena’s man- 
ner could not be quite the same to him as before. But there was 
the usual friendly greeting, no blush, no look betrayed any conscious- 
ness. She was in one of her grave moods, but that was accounted 
for, as her flrst words told him that her father was rather worse. 

“ He cannot have spoken to her,” thought Mr. Grey. 

Mr. Dogan, like many high-spirited people, had great rallying pow- 
er, and he seemed as well as usual when Mr. Grey came. It was char- 
acteristic of him that he kept his wife in the room and talked on in- 
different subjects, instead of relieving his friend’s anxiety at once. 
But Annette had received her instructions, and she left before Mr. 
Grey’s patience was quite exhausted. He asked his question the mo- 
ment they were alone. 

“ Did you speak to her?” 

“Yes, and I think that you are too faint-hearted. I don’t pretend to 
say that my child loves you, or that she has even thought of y-ou as 
a lover. But such strong liking and respect as she has for you are 
no bad foundation oil which to build. Leave her alone a little 
longer; let her learn to look at things in the new light that I have 
thrown on them, and then, if she does not repulse you — try.” 

It was something better than Mr. Gkey had expected. It gave 
him encouragement to speak as if in answer to questions which the 
father might have asked, but did not. 

Mr. Dogan knew that his friend was a prosperous man, but he 
found him richer than he thought ; he knew that he was liberal, yet 
his intentions towards a possible wife were more generous than he 
expected. It was easy to leave things in the hands of such a suitor. 

“As a father,” he said, “I appreciate your liberality, but Verena 
is the most unmercenary creature in the world. She would think 
far more of your promising that her little sister should live with her 
than of all the settlements. ” 

“Mara is to be my adopted daughter m any case. She was my 
first love, you know.” 

Mr. Dogan made some efforts to help his friend after this explan a« 
ation. He would slip out of the conversation and leave it to be sus- 
tained by Mr. Grey and Verena. 

“ It does me good to hear people talking,” he would say, “when 
I am not quite well enough to talk myself. ” 

On days when he felt better he would venture out in a bath-chair 
with Verena at his side, and surprise Mr. Grey by appearing on the| 
port in the morning. He had hitherto refused to drive, but now he 
allowed himself to be Put occasionally in one of the little 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


15 


awning-covered carriages that were always plying for hire. He only 
required that Mr. Grey should go too. 

“ So that Verena may not have to hear all the brunt if I am taken 
ill,” he would say. 

One day he agreed to take Mara with them, and go as far as the 
valley. Mr. Grey had often wished to take the child ; he was very 
fond of the gracious little lady who had bewitched him at first sight, 
and he could see that Verena was always her brightest and best in 
Mara’s company. To-day she seemed for once a happy, merry girl. 
Mara was at first delighted to find herself in a carriage, but she soon 
' became restless and eager to get out. 

“But papa cannot get out,” said Verena; “ perhaps Mr. Grey will 
I be so kind as to take you out and show you a little bit of the valley.” 

! “ And Veena go, too,” said the child. 

1 “No, I shall stay with papa.” 

1 “No,” said her father, “ I don’t want you. And Mara is too heavy 

^ a responsibility for Mr. Grey to undertake alone.” 

Verena did not need much pressing. She wanted to go with Mara. 
She held the child’s hand tightly, with a glance at the little stream 
that fiowed through the valley. There were grapes growing on the 
wall near a little rustic inn, and Mara pointed them out gleefully. 
Mr. Grey had some cut for her. 

“I am afraid we shall not get tea like yours here,” he said, “but 
; perhaps we might get decent cotfee. ” 

“Oh, anything will do to please Mara; she won’t mind how bad 
I it is. It’s the fun of the thing she likes. ” 

i So tea was ordered against their return, to be laid in a little arbor 
! near the inn. Arbors are full of earwfigs and creeping things, but 
was there ever a child that did not love one? Mr. Grey remembered 
' his own childhood well enough to guess Mara’s tastes. It was 
Mara’s treat, and her treat was Verena’s. Mr. Grey thought what a 
tender sister Verena was. It was one of the sweetest things about 
! her. He told himself that he had not fallen in love with a lovely 
I face alone. Perhaps not'; yet, if Verena had looked like other girls, 
she might still have been a dutiful daughter, a kind sister, an intelli- 
gent companion, but — he would not have lost his head about her. 
Mr. Grey had not usually been susceptible to the charms of a pretty 
face; but then he had never, in his own opinion, seen a beautiful 
woman before. 

They walked up the valley, and then turned a little out of their 
way to find the Chateau d’Epreville that Mr. Dogan so often talked 
about. It was deserted now, so they could walk up the avenue and 
mark the spots where the spring and the horse-pond, that lived in 
story, had once been. Then they found some one to let them into 
the house. Verena had never been able to get inside, and she wanted 
to see it. But the walls of the drawing-room were no longer adorned 
with a paper representing the story of Paul and Virginia; and, by 
an innovation which Mr. Grey unwillingly recognized as an improver 
ment, a modern grate had been substituted for the old hearth op 
which the damp logs used to smoke and hiss. The old, unreasonable 


16 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


door still opened from the drawing-room straight into the farm-yard; 
that was a great comfort. 

Mr. Grey covered himself with glory as a guide. He not only 
showed Mara all the places that her father had talked about, but 
told the most thrilling narratives of his exploits. Verena noticed 
that he always made his friend the hero. It was he who had caught 
the big fish, he who had proved too many for the mad cow in the 

dangerous field.” 

Mr. Dogan was not tired of waiting. He said he felt quite well, 
and they could take their tea in peace. Ease of mind is a good med- 
icine, and Mr. Dogan felt that things were working towards the end 
he wished. Mr. Grey was not scaring Verena by lover-like atten- 
tions. And he w^as unconsciously approaching her on her weak 
side by making persistent love to little Mara. 

Mr. Grey was, in truth, making his advances very gently. His 
manners to women had always something of the old-fashioned def- 
erence. Even with the baby Mara there was a recognition of the 
courtesy due to her sex. To Verena he offered the homage of a 
worshipper to a saint rather than the ardor of a lover. It was the 
only way in which he could have recommended himself to Verena. 
There was little chance of his winning her love, but he was making 
her sacrifice far less intolerable to her, and she thanked him from 
her heart. Yet Mr. Grey went home feeling even less satisfied than 
usual. The afternoon had been delightful while it lasted, but he 
seemed to himself to make no way with Verena. Her very friend- 
liness seemed almost like a protest against his being regarded as a 
lover. He could quite believe that she laughed at her father’s hints 
and suspicions. 

That evening Mr. Grey met Mrs. Dogan on the port. He ventured 
to ask her for what he had long desired to possess, a photograph of 
Verena. He did not quite put it in that way, but requested the pho- 
tographs of the family. 

“We have none of us been taken,” said Mrs. Dogan. 

Mr. Grey felt surprised. He knew that they had not much money 
to lavish, but still rich and poor alike contrive in these days to get 
photographed. 

“ I call that too bad,” he said. Then, by way of making a begin- 
ning, he added, “Now, would not your little girl make a charming 
picture? I should like to have her taken.” 

Annette caught at the idea. 

“Let us get it done and surprise the others,” she said. 

“ But Mara will tell them.” 

“No, Mara can keep a secret already.” 

Mr. Grey doubted it. 

Mara was dressed in her new frock and carried off to the pho- 
tographer’s next day. A very successful likeness was obtained. But 
Annette refused to be taken. Mr. Grey had supposed that the pret- 
ty, vain young woman would be all eagerness to see herself in a 
picture. 

Mara justified the confidence that had been reposed in her. She 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


17 


was very mysterious, and often talked of a secret, but she did not 
betray it. Annette managed her surprise well. She contrived that 
the photographs should arrive when Mr. Grey was present. 

“ Why, here is a packet for each of us!” she exclaimed. 

Verena opened hers first, and uttered a cry of delight when she 
saw a beautifully mounted likeness of Mara. Her cheeks fiushed. 
Mr. Grey had never seen her look animated. Then she turned to 
him with eyes full of gratitude. This time he had indeed succeeded 
in pleasing her. But his next move received a check. 

“Your father has a likeness of one of his daughters now,” he 
said, “will not you let him have the other also?” 

“Oh no,” cried Verena, quickly, “I should hate to be photo- 
I graphed. I have never had my likeness taken, and I hope that I 
i never shall.” 

i “ Verena is so vain,” said her father, laughing, “she is afraid that 
; her pretty face will find its way on to a handkerchief-box. We have 
' heard of such things.” 

I Mr. Grey could not stay at Boulogne forever. He had usually en- 
joyed his holiday well enough without regretting its close. This 
year he found himself counting the weeks b^efore term with dismay. 
He had intended to return home about the middle of October, and 
now October had begun. And still he received no encouragement 
to speak. Verena continued unresponsive; besides, he was never 
I alone with her for more than a few moments at a time. A happy, 

I confident lover can whisper his secret in a few words, but Mr. Grey 
wanted time to put his case. He did not expect a read}^ assent. At 
last the opportunity came. It was, in fact, arranged for him. For 
Mr. Dogan was growing a little impatient, feeling that the long va- 
cation and his own lease of life were alike waning. 

One morning when Mr. Grey had joined the two girls as usual on 
their early walk, Mara uttered a little cry of surprise, “ maman!” and 
she ran to meet Annette. But Annette turned and ran away in fun as 
I the child approached. A playful chase ensued, and led them across 
I the quiet sands towards the sea. Mr. Grey and Verena were left be- 
I hind. He felt that he must speak now, if ever. He had often framed 
I his speech, but he forgot it all, and used the simplest form of words. 

Verena only said, 

“I could not leave my father.” 

“I would not ask you to do so, at least not yet. Only let me 
hope.” 

Then, looking straight out to sea, she spoke the one word that a 
lover desires to hear, 

“Yes.” 

It was more than Mr. Grey had hoped for. Yet he felt chilled. 
They were standing now looking out across the bright sea. Mr. 
Grey spoke again. 

‘ ‘ I cannot expect you to love me yet. But there is one question I 
should like you to answer. I do not ask in idle curiosity or from 
jealousy, but only because I would not make you unhappy. Do you 
Jove any other man?” 


18 


A DAUGHTEK OF THE GODS. 


I 


Then, for the first time, Yerena turned her face towards him, and 
her clear eyeS looked straight into his as she answered, 

'‘No, I do not love any man except my father. Besides him, 
there is no man I like so well as I do you.” 

Her look and her words carried complete conviction. Mr. Grey 
never doubted that Yerena brought him an untouched heart. 


CHAPTER III. 

At the open window of a drawing-room looking on the Lees at 
Folkestone, sat Emmeline Grey and her cousin Kate Payn, taking 
afternoon-tea. They had just come in from a ride, and still wore 
their habits, a dress which may safely be commended to the elderly 
young. At twenty Emmeline had been a pretty girl, with a round | 
figure, bright brown hair and eyes, and a good complexion. No one ; 
noticed then that her face was ill-shaped or that her features were 
irregular. But at thirty-five these defects were very apparent, for 
the soft outlines and bright tints of youth had given place to a gen- 
eral heaviness of form and color. Yet Emmeline still felt young 
and pretty. A placid expression of self-satisfaction rested on her 
face, which formed a fair index of her mind. Here was no sense of 
moral failure or of intellectual deficiency. Fond of the good things 
of this world, and possessing them in a sufficient measure, Emmeline 
was content. She was a woman to whom the trifles of every-day ' 
life T^ere things of great moment, and the more stirring influences 
that moved mankind mere abstract follies. She saw everything by 
the gleam of a little rush-light which she burned continually before 
the altar of self. And her self-love was of that enduring kind which 
is founded upon a sincere esteem. 

The most “popular” of reviews might have wooed Emmeline in 
vain, but if Spencer and Tyndall had talked of philosophy, or Ten- 
nyson and Browning of poetry, or Gladstone and Bright of oratory 
in her presence, she would have contributed her full share to the 
conversation. So, indeed, she would most probably have done if the 
talkers had been Mitchell and Roberts, and the topic the conditions 
of the spot-stroke. 

Though not always a favorite with those who knew her well, Em- 
meline rather took with strangers, who found her cheerful and thought 
her good - natured. Stout, comfortable - looking people are usually 
supposed to be good-natured, just as homely-looking girls are often 
credited with the domestic virtues. Being sociable, Emmeline made 
a good many acquaintances. She found it convenient to choose 
them from a somewhat lower level of society than her own, demand- 
ing little but that they should dress well and not murder the Queen’s 
English, and should recognize the social claims of a distinguished 
Q. C.’s sister. 

' Th§ friends who frequented Emmeline’s luncheon-parties and af- 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


19 


1 ternoon-teas had little in common with those who were asked period- 
j ically to Mr. Grey’s dinner-parties. She had gathered a congenial 
circle round her at Folkestone, and did not regret the absence of a 
brother of whom, in truth, she stood somewhat in awe. While al- 
ways speaking of herself as a much-loved and valued sister, Emme- 
line secretly doubted whether James appreciated her full worth. 
She got on much better with her cousin Kate Payn. Kate fell in 
, with her way of enjoying the busy idleness of sea-side life. With 
good health and a fund of animal spirits, Emmeline liked to work 
j hard at pleasure, and Kate was always ready to bathe, ride, or walk; 
i to see a boat in or out ; to get up a picnic, or start off at a moment’s 
1 notice for Dover or Shorncliffe. Emmeline found herself more en- 
j tertaining in Kate’s company, and probably did not suspect that 
1 Kate contributed brains to the entertainment, though her habitual 
! piracy of Kate’s ideas could scarcely have been involuntary. 

I Kate had never been pretty. Since her school - days, when the 
' girls had sung her charms in the couplet, 

I “ Kate Payn 

[ Is very plain,” 

I there had been no question about her looks. She was too wise to 
I lay claim to the gift denied her, but felt a little bitter on the subject, 
[ and though she admired personal beauty, she did not love its pos- 
^ sessors. Perhaps she liked Emmeline all the better since she had 
f lost the fleeting prettiness of her girlish days. Kate thought well of 
herself, and believed that, with a fair share of personal attractions, 
she would have had the world at her feet. Tact and adaptability 
had made her very acceptable to both the Greys. They were useful 
to her, and she gave them a certain loyal friendship in return. 

Poor Kate cherished a secret hope that if any accident removed 
Emmeline (by accident she meant either death or marriage), James 
might marry herself. Of course he was not in love with her, but 
then she supposed that his sentimental days were over, and if he 
married now it would be for the sake of having a sensible woman 
to carry on his household in the way he liked. A very feminine 
way of looking at the matter, which did not quite show Kate’s usu- 
al acuteness. But then James Grey was generally recognized as a 
man who had no fancy for women, however young and pretty. 

“What a pity we did not get back in time to see that boat inT^ 
said Enameline, looking regretfully at the stream of people wending 
their way back from the pier. “There is sure to have been some 
one we know coming over just the day we missed going down.” 

“ Perhaps James,” said Kate. 

“No, he would not come without writing. I think he must have 
gone farther than Paris ; he would never have stayed there so long 
as this.” 

“ Here is Bessie King,” cried Kate; “ have you any tea in the pot?” 

Emmeline poured in hot water hastily before Mrs. King entered. 
She was a pretty, over-dressed little woman, who gained a general 
welcome by an extraordinary fapulty for cpllecting gossip and news. 


20 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


She came in now with an air of suppressed excitement which Kate 
knew to be the forerunner of some peculiarly interesting communi- 
cation. Emmeline never observed anything, but greeted her visitor 
with a flow of talk which left little room for interruption. But Mrs. 
King seized her opportunity, and began, 

“Have you heard from your brother lately?” 

“No, I did not expect a letter,” said Emmeline, who wanted to 
talk of something else. 

But Kate was on the alert, and came to the rescue. 

“ Bessie, you have heard something about Mr. Grey. What is it? 
You had better tell us.” 

Emmeline’s attention was arrested. 

“ What can Bessie have heard?” she asked, incredulously. 

“ Well, I hardly know how to tell you, if you have really heard 
nothing. But perhaps you ought to know.” 

“Of course we ought,” said Kate. 

“ Then,” replied Mrs. King, who never spoiled her etfects by 
breaking news gradually, “I hear that he is going to be married.” 

“ Never!” cried Kate. 

“Impossible !” cried Emmeline. 

Mrs. King was set going now, and went on : 

“ It’s quite true. I met two friends who came over in the boat 
from Boulogne, and they both told me the same thing. One of them 
has been staying at the hotel with Mr. Grey. The other knows a 
Madame Duval, who heard the news from the step-mother of the girl 
whom Mr. Grey is going to marry. She is only nineteen, and very 
beautiful ; but they are quite poor people, living in a cheap apartment 
in a back street. They made a dead set at your brother directly he 
came to Boulogne, and now they have caught him, and I don’t sup- 
pose they will let him go till he has married the girl.” 

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Emmeline. 

“I don’t believe the whole of it, ’’said Kate, who was somewhat 
impressed by the amount of detailed circumstance in the narrative. 
“James has probably met this girl, and been seen about with her, 
and the whole story has sprung out of that. It cannot have gone so 
far as an engagement. But is he still at Boulogne?” 

“Yes, he has never been anywhere else, and he is always at the 
Rue des Pipots, where these people live. He walks every morning 
with this girl on the sands. She is so beautiful that her father makes 
her wear a thick veil when she goes out, and she is not allowed to 
show herself at the etahUssement or any of the public places.” 

“ It sounds like a fairy-tale,” said Kate, mockingly; “a beautiful 
veiled princess being kept for her lover. But I never thought that 
my cousin James would play the part of a fairy prince.” 

“My brother is not in the habit of picking up acquaintances,” 
said Emmeline, severely. 

But Mrs. King had her answer ready. 

“ Oh ! the father claims some old friendship, when they were boys, 
I think. Did you ever hear the name of Dogan?” 

“ No,” replied Emmeline. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


21 


“I remember it,” said Kate, “Frank Dogan — I have heard James 
speak of him.” 

“There now!” cried Bessie, triumphantly, “they have taken ad- 
: vantage of an old acquaintance, for they are not the sort of people 
, Mr. Grey ought to know. The father is a needy adventurer, living 
about in cheap foreign towns, and always out at elbows. The 
step-mother is French, and must be rather disreputable, for I hear 

I that she goes everywhere with a lover. The girl is kept quiet enough 
now, after the French fashion, but of course she will break out when 

! she is married. ‘A most undesirable connection,’ that is what Mr. 
[| Mercer called it. ” 

1; “I don’t think you have any business to talk in this way of my 
ji brother,” said Emmeline, angrily. “ He is not the sort of man to do 
|i a foolish thing. ” 

II “ Oh, never trust a man where a pretty face is* concerned. They 
I are all alike. But, if I were you, I would go to Boulogne and see 
!i if there is any chance of getting your brother out of his entangle- 
S ment. He may have got drawn in further than he intended.” 

\ “I would go directly,” said Emmeline, “if I believed it. I have 
j great influence with my brother. ” 

! “Then pray use it. Just think what it will be for you to have 
I some designing girl, a beggar on horseback, set over your head. Go 
to Boulogne and find out for yourself, if you will not believe me. ” 

“I will go to-morrow,” replied Emmeline. “I am not one to 
j lose time where my duty is concerned. Let us find out what time 
, the boat goes. ” 

“I must be off, ’’said Bessie, eager to carry her news elsewhere. 

I “ Good-by, dear; I hope you may be in time to stop it. Don’t sub- 
mit without a struggle, whatever you do. ” 

“Bessie is a goose,” said Kate, as the door closed. “If this pre- 
cious story of hers is true, what good would your going to Boulogne 
do?” 

“Why, all the good in the world,” cried Emmeline, astonished. 

‘ ‘ If designing people have got hold of my brother, I shall get him 
out of their clutches.” 

“ Now, do you really think that any one would get hold of James 
* against his will? Is he a fool or a boy, or a man in his dotage? He 
is in full possession of his senses, and as little likely to be taken in 
and done for as any man I know. If he has done this thing, he 
has done it with his eyes open, and, having a pretty strong will of 
his own, no one will turn him from it.” 

“But James is the last man to fall in love with a pretty face.” 

“I thought so too; but, as Bessie says, you can’t trust any man. 
Pretty faces have it all their own way in the world. If James were 
more given to philandering, I might think less of this story.” 

“But you don’t believe it, Kate?” 

“I’m afraid I do, in part at least. Bessie may be silly, but she 
does get hold of stories with some truth in them. And why has 
James stayed all this time at Boulogne? He must have some at- 
traction there. Besides, two people have brought back the same 


22 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


story. And one of them is Mr. Mercer, who would not repeat mere 
idle gossip. Bessie slipped out his name by mistake. ” 

“And do you mean to say that I ought not to go to Boulogne and 
find out the truth?” 

“Not unless you wish to make James very angry. Have you 
not told me yourself how he hates to be interfered with?” 

‘ ‘ But he would be treating me shamefully after all I have done 
for him — remaining single, too, all these years for his sake. ” This 
was a favorite fiction of Emmeline’s. It perhaps accounted for the 
fact that she had never received an offer. 

“ Men are very ungrateful,” observed Kate, “and James has given 
you some return for your devotion.” 

“ I should leave him directly. I would not stay to have a chit of 
nineteen put over my head.” 

‘ ‘ Then you would just play into the hands of his wife. Of course 
she would like to get rid of you.” 

“Would you have me stay and submit to her?” 

“ No, I would have you stay and hold your own. If there is any 
truth in Bessie’s account, the girl seems a nonentity. She is prob- 
ably just a pretty doll, and James will make a pet of her, and then 
get a little tired of his toy and fall back into all his old ways. If 
you can keep your temper and play your cards well, you may win 
after all. And you had better not let people see that you are an- 
noyed. Bessie will tell every one, and they will all want to condole 
with you. I should just pretend, I mean profess, to care for noth- 
ing but James’s happiness.” 

“ Every one knows that I am very unselfish,” murmured Emme- 
line. 

“Just so; and till we hear from James himself we need not dis- 
cuss this report with strangers.” 

“You would not take it so coolly if it were your brother,” said 
Emmeline. 

“ Perhaps not,” replied Kate, who was in truth inwardly raging. 
Only she did not intend to quarrel with James or to let Emmeline 
do so. 

Emmeline and Kate watched eagerly for the post, but a week 
passed before it brought any confirmation of Bessie’s news. Even 
Kate began to hope that the report was untrue. Rumor had, indeed, 
rather outrun the facts. Annette might consider her step-daughter’s 
marriage a fair subject for gossip, but Mr. Grey had not received his 
answer from Yerena’s lips when Bessie brought her story to the 
house on the Lees. On the eighth day Emmeline received a letter, 
which she tore open and read aloud: 

“My dear Emmeline, — I have some news to tell which will, I 
think, surprise you.” (Kate groaned.) “But I hope that you will 
be pleased to hear of something which will add very much to my 
happiness. Since I came here I have met my old friend Frank Do- 
gan, and I am now engaged to his daughter Verena. She is only 
twenty-one and remarkably handsome. I tell you this, knowing 


A DAUGHTEK OF THE GODS. 


23 


what your first two questions would be; but for a fuller description 
you must wait till we meet. Our marriage cannot take place so 
soon as I should wish, for Mr. Dogan is in such bad health that his 
daughter does not like to leave him, and there is no chance of his 
being able to visit England before the spring. If he can bear the 
journey, his family propose moving him to Cannes before the win- 
ter. I intend to return to Folkestone on Friday the 24th, and should 
like you and Kate to be ready to go back to London with me on the 
following day. Of course you will give your landlady a week’s notice. 

“Ever your affectionate brother, 

“James Grey.” 

“ Let us be thankful for small mercies,’’ said Kate; “the marriage 
is postponed, and perhaps it may never come off.” 

“I think it is a horrid letter, ” cried Emmeline. “James says 
nothing about me and what 1 may think of his marrying. He talks 
as if it were just a matter of course that he should bring home a 
wife. He does not even say whether it will make any difference 
to me.” 

“He counts on your unselfishness, you see; he thinks that you 
will be pleased at anything that may add to his happiness. ” 

Emmeline never detected the shade of mockery that was so often 
apparent in Kate’s tone : she went on, 

“I don’t think he can have the face to turn me out, do you?” 

“Not unless you make yourself unpleasant about his marriage, 
or say nasty things of his beloved one. I’m afraid a man in love is 
capable of any injustice.” 

When Friday arrived, Emmeline elected to meet her brother alone 
at the pier. She felt as if it would be an invasion of her privileges 
for any one else to meet James and share his first confidences. Kate 
wanted to go too, but she knew when to give way. 

The Mr. Grey who landed from the boat was a different man from 
the one who had left Folkestone. He looked younger, brighter, and 
more alert. His engagement seemed almost more real to him now 
that he was parted from Yerena. He had already forgotten the re- 
serve and shade of coldness which kept him chilled and restrained in 
her presence. It must have been fancy, for he could recall nothing 
but sweetness and gentle regard for his wishes. Yerena had prom- 
ised to marry him as soon as her father might safely return to Eng- 
land. There was another contingency of which Mr. Grey did not 
speak to Yerena, but in that case he felt there need be no long de- 
lay. Mr. Grey had made arrangements with Annette for her hus- 
band’s comfort. She understood that everything was to be smooth 
and easy from henceforth. 

Mr. Grey greeted Emmeline kindly, but nothing could be more un- 
gracious than her manner. His cheerfulness was an offence to her. 

“I suppose that I ought to congratulate you,” she began, stiffly, 
as they walked towards the Lees. 

“You certainly ought,” said he, good-humoredly, “ for I am a 
very fortunate man.” 


24 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


‘‘I was very much surprised.” 

‘‘ I suppose so; an engagement usually takes us by surprise, if we 
have not been in the way of seeing the courtship. ” 

“I never thought that you would marry — least of all that you 
would marry a girl young enough to be your daughter. ” 

“ Well, you see,” replied her brother, reflectively, “ young women 
are more attractive than old ones.” 

Emmeline was silent, wondering whether James meant to be nasty. 
Many stray caps fitted Emmeline, for the simple reason that to her 
there was but one head in the world. 

“Where is Kate?” asked Mr. Grey. “Why didn’t she come to 
meet me?” 

“Kate preferred to stay at home,” replied Emmeline, in a tone 
that implied some resentment on Kate’s part. 

But Kate’s manner was reassuring. She offered warm congratu- 
lations, and, having a notion that lovers like to talk on one subject, 
she plied James with questions about Yerena. 

“Do show us her photo; of course you have one about you?” 

“ She happens to be the only woman I ever met who has not been 
photographed.” 

‘ ‘ Then you must give us a full description of her, not a poor little 
vague description, but a minute one — whether she is tall or short, fat 
or thin, fair or dark, what sort of eyes, nose, and mouth she has, Ixow 
she wears her hair, and how she dresses.” 

“ Well, I will try my best. First, she is tall, quite as tall as I am 
myself, and that is something over flve feet eight, but she is so grace- 
ful that no one could think her too tall; she is not thin, but there is a 
girlish slenderness about her; her flgure is flexible.” 

“ Oh, indeed,” said Kate, mischievously. 

“ Well, it looks so,” said Mr. Grey, with a vague impression that 
Kate’s malice was not unflattering; “she is lissome, like flesh and 
blood, and not like a dress-maker’s dummy.” 

“Has she small hands and feet?” asked Emmeline, who prided 
herself on her own. 

‘ ‘ They are very well shaped, but I don’t know that they are par- 
ticularly small. We should not have called them small in my young 
days, but I never now see such little feet as my mother could boast.” 

“Mine are as small,” said Emmeline, resentfully; but no one 
heeded her, and Mr. Grey went on: 

“Yerena can use her feet well; I never saw a girl walk better. 
Her head is well shaped, and well set on a beautiful throat, and her 
hair — I am afraid that I cannot attempt to describe her hair, you 
must see that for yourselves. ” 

“You can at least tell us whether it is light or dark.” 

“Yery light. Yerena is wonderfully fair. She has the pale, 
shimmering, golden hair, and the singular purity of complexion that 
you sometimes see on a very young child.” 

“ Has she a color?” asked Emmeline. 

“Just a rose-leaf tint, but she is sometimes pale like a white 
flower.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


25 


“I like a nice color myself,” said Emmeline — “most people do.” 

“Go on with your description,” said Kate. “ I see that she has 
been photographed in one way at least. ” 

Mr. Grey smiled as he went on : 

‘ ‘ Her hair frames her face, growing in large waves over the fore- 
head, which is so white that even her fair hair looks dark against 
it.” 

“ Does she wear a fringe?” asked Emmeline. 

“ No, certainly not,” said Mr. Grey, disgusted, “ and she has a 
forehead. Most of you women have no foreheads nowadays. Her 
features are so regular that they might almost look severe if it were 
not for her soft baby-like coloring and her large blue eyes — eyes 
with a wistful, pathetic sort of look in them.” 

“Don’t say she is perfect,” cried Kate, “ every one will hate her! 
Hair, eyes, features, complexion, figure, it is too much for one wom- 
an. There must be a weak place somewhere. Come now, you are 
sworn to tell us the truth. She is very fair, you say; has she not 
white eyelashes, and no eyebrows at all?” 

“ On the contrary, her eyebrows are very well marked, and her 
eyelashes quite as dark as they ought to be.” 

“ You do not mention her teeth.” 

“They are perfect.” 

“As some slight set-off against such natural advantages does she 
at least dress badly?” 

‘ ‘ She always looks nice, but I don’t think she cares much for 
dress. As a matter of fact, I have never seen her wear anything but 
a black stuff dress and a linen collar. ” 

“ Like a shop-girl,” said Emmeline. 

' ‘ ‘ She does not look at all like a shop-girl ; but, if she were one, 

the shop where she served would have a very large custom.” 
j “I suppose you gave her a great many presents,” said Emme- 
j line. 

' “Of course I gave her a ring and a few other trifles, but she does 
not seem to care much for ornaments. She has lived very quietly, 
and shows little taste for the frivolities of life.” 

I “What a rebound there will be,” thought Kate. 

I “ Talking of presents,” continued Mr. Grey, “ I will get some lit- 
1 tie things I brought back for you girls. I think you like jewellery 
I better than Yerena does.” 

I “James is very far gone,” remarked Kate; “it is quite awful. 
I And she is only a flaxen-haired doll after all!” 


26 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS* 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Dogans were to leave for Cannes early in November, and 
Mr. Grey was preparing to pay them a flying visit when he received 
a telegram from Yerena. Her father was dead. Mr. Grey hurried 
to Boulogne. He found that death had been very sudden at last. 

Mr. Dogan had passed a fairly good night and seemed as well 
as usual in the morning. Yerena had taken him his breakfast 
and the Times, which Mr. Grey sent daily, then she went out with 
Mara. Soon after, Annette heard her husband’s bell ring and ran 
in to find him dying. That was all Yerena told, but Annette could 
have added a little more. When she rushed in, her husband was 
past speech, but she was quick-witted enough to interpret his last 
gesture. She hid away the Times that he had been reading, and at 
her leisure searched it carefully. In the death column she found 
the announcement which had no doubt agitated him. She destroy- 
ed the pa’per and held her tongue. 

There was no need to speak of any shock or excitement which 
might have possibly hastened the end. Mr. Dogan’s death took no 
one by surprise, unless it might be Yerena, who was looking hope- 
fully to the journey to Cannes. Mr. Grey felt that it was no time 
for love-making. He must be the friend of the family and nothing 
more. He made all his arrangements with Annette, who would, he 
knew, do her best to further his interests. She had possibly her 
own plans for the future — he had not forgotten the good-looking 
young Frenchman, but nothing could be more discreet than her be- 
havior at present. Her heart was in France, but she consented as a 
sort of compromise to spend the winter at Folkestone. She did not 
wish to come to London, neither did Yerena. 

Mr. Dogan was buried in the cemetery, which looks like a garden 
of flowers, by the St. Omer Road, and a few days afterwards Mr. 
Grey brought the widow and children to Folkestone. He installed 
them in the house on the Lees, where Emmeline and Kate had been 
spending their holiday a few weeks before. The French servant 
Lisette,who had been Mrs. Dogan’s factotum at Boulogne, accompa- 
nied them in the new capacity of nurse to Mara. 

Mr. Grey ran down to the “ Pavilion ” occasionally for Sunday, and 
at Christmas he made a longer stay, but he did not even then vent- 
ure to speak of the future to Yerena. She had shown no interest in 
their removal to England, and remained dejected and listless. She 
had suffered deeply, and, like a person returning to daily life after 
a long illness, she only craved rest. While her father lived, there 
had been a constant call on her energies and a constant flutter of 
hope and fear. Now there was only a blank feeling of desolation. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


27 


She knew that she must learn to stand alone from henceforth, and 
the burden of her life fell heavily on her shoulders. 

Verena was thankful for Mr. Grey’s forbearance; she meant to 
fulfil her engagement, but she desired that it should at present re* 
main in abeyance. She was not to have her own way long. 

“Verena,” said Annette one morning, early in February, “ is that 
letter from Mr. Grey?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does he say anything about your marriage?” 

“ He wants it to take place at Easter, but it is too soon.” 

‘ ‘ Why, you are not going to have a gay wedding. What reason 
can there be for putting it off?” 

“My father’s recent death is a suflacient reason. Mr. Grey must 
wait till the long vacation. It cannot be very convenient for him 
to be married at Easter, for he says that he can only get away for a 
fortnight.” 

“Yes, and so you will only go away for a week or two; while, 
if you marry in the long vacation, he will want to take you off for 
two or three months. How should you like that?” 

“ Not at all; but I don’t think that Mr. Grey would keep me away 
longer than I wished.” 

“ Run away, Mara, my pet,” said Annette; “tell Lisette to put on 
your things and take you to the beach. I will come presently. ” 

Then Annette came over and put her arm round Verena coaxingly 
as she said, 

“ I have something to tell you, but you must not be angry.” 

Why should I be angry?” 

“Because you are so high-flown in your notions, and so conven- 
tional. Verena, if you don’t want to be married, I do.” 

Verena started and looked shocked. 

“ My father has not been dead four months!” 

“There! I knew how it would be. But you know how I came 
to marry your father. Can you expect that I should have much 
sentiment about the matter?” 

I “You married him willingly.” 

1 “Of course I did; it was a great thing for such a poor, friendless 

I girl as I was. I might call myself a governess, but I was little bet- 
ter than a nurse when I first came to you; and then, just as you 
were growing up, and I expected to lose my place, your father offer- 
ed to marry me. I thought myself a lucky girl then, and no one 
can say that I was not a good wife and mother.” Annette laughed 
defiantly as she spoke the last word ; then she went on, “ I fell in 
with all your father’s arrangements to the last. He thought so much 
of my comfort and happiness— did he not? But do you think that 
I have no feelings, or that I would have consented to be turned 
adrift and cut off from you and Mara if it had not been for 
Achille?” 

“ Who is Achille?” 

“Achille Dagomet. I got to know him at Boulogne. He is a 
silk-merchant at Lyons. It is a good match for me, but I don’t 


28 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


care for that; I love Achille; and now, when I see my way to being 
happy, you try to make things unpleasant.’' 

“But, Annette, you must have let this man make love to you in 
my father’s lifetime. Can you expect me to forgive that?” 

“ I don’t care whether you forgive me or not,” cried Annette, los- 
ing her temper; “I mean to marry Achille. I have always been 
willing to help you, Verena, and I am making over to you all my 
share of Mara. You will have her to yourself, and make her forget 
me; you need never be jealous of me any more. Oh! don’t pretend 
that you are not jealous of her affection for me ; I have seen it a hun- 
dred times. You are jealous of me — her mother!” And Annette 
gave another mocking laugh as she left the room ; but she returned 
directly. “ Don’t be angry, Verena; you know I love you. I never 
pretend to be high-minded, and you ought not to expect too much 
from me. Marry Mr. Grey at Easter, and all will be right. I shall 
go away to visit friends in France, and he need not know that I am 
going to be married directly. He doesn’t think much of me now, 
but he would hate me then, and never let me come near you. Let 
us keep friends, Verena.” 

Annette’s eyes were full of tears; she held out her hand with a 
pleading gesture. Verena took it, but still spoke rather coldly. 

“You must do as you please, but I am not obliged to marry im- 
mediately. ” 

“You could not stay on here alone. Mr. Grey would not hear of 
it. And what excuse could I give for leaving you. Be sensible 
and think it over.” And, kissing her, Annette ran away. 

Verena sat “ stone still, stone white.” With the perfect contour I 
of her head and features thrown out against the light, she looked ' 
like a beautiful statue; but no artist’s hand ever threw such an in- I 
tensity of pain and feeling into a sculptured face. Verena was 
not thinking of her marriage. The event which usually fills a girl’s i 
mind to the exclusion of all other subjects was a matter of compar- 
ative indifference to Verena. It was distasteful to her, but so were 
most things in life. 

Verena was doing what she seldom allowed herself to do— she was 
living over the past. With a new life opening before her, she gave 
one farewell glance back. She saw herself as we see our past selves 
in memory, a visible image, like a distinct person before her. She 
saw first a dreamy, precocious child clinging to a mother who was 
early taken from her. She remembered that first grief and the 
dreary void it left till the kind, merry Annette came to live with 
them. It was Annette who taught her to read novels and talked to 
her of love and lovers, leading the child’s mind to wander in a fairy- 
like world of romance, where commonplace thmgs became poetry 
by the light of a most vivid imagination. And the child took pleas- 
ure in her own growing, beauty, because beauty would give her the 
key to enter as a heroine into the world where her fancy dwelt. 

Verena saw a girl of sixteen, as romantic as Juliet, and, like Juliet, 
only too ready to meet love half-way. And then the lover had come, 
the very hero of an unschooled fancy. Ten years her senior, and j 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


29 


with ten times her knowledge of the world, he found no insuperable 
I difficulty in winning her consent to a clandestine courtship. To the 
romantic child secrecy seemed a not unnatural atmosphere for love. 
And when discovery and opposition threatened them, he had found 
it easy to trick her into a position from which escape seemed so im- 
possible that he believed she would remain an easy victim. Then 
i — the confession being forced from him — he had told her that he 
5 was a married man. Love was struck dead at that moment. She 
i had broken her bonds, though her heart seemed to break with 
I them. 

I Verena hid her face as she recalled the days which followed. 

I She saw a heart-broken, despairing woman who was not mad, yet 
i had to be watched day and night because her one idea was to get 
I rid of a life which had become intolerable. Her father watched her 
; with Annette, who was then his wife. How kind they had been to 
\ her! She did not feel it then, but she knew it now. And her father 
had his own trouble too. He cared more for his daughter’s fame 
j than she could care for anything at that dreadful time. Though 
Verena was in truth sinless, yet a shadow must rest on her name 
unless her story could be hushed up. And he had worked success- 
fully to that end. Life was all black to Verena; nothing broke the 
ti hard monotony of her grief till she first took Mara in her arms and 
I felt a human feeling thrill through her. From that moment she 
fl lived again — a withered, stunted life. 

I The love for her father which had lain dormant revived. She saw 
that there were duties still left, and, setting herself a high standard, 

1 she tried to live up to it. Like a Hindoo widow, she lived coarsely, 

I dressed meanly, and did the work of the household. All vanity and 
■ frivolity seemed burned out of her by the fiery trial she had passed 
I through. In her misery she had wished herself a Roman Catholic, 
that she might take the veil, and no sworn nun could have lived a 
I life of more rigid austerity and self-denial than she enforced on her- 
^ self. She read and studied deeply, at first with a purpose, but after- 
[i wards for the sake of the relief which all hard work brought. To 
try to lull her memory or ease her pain by light amusements was 
like trying to keep the enemy out of a besieged city by a barricade 
of flowers. And this was the girl whom Mr. Grey believed to be 
heart-whole, and whom he proposed to win by surrounding her with 
t luxury and opening the gates of a new world full of pleasure! His 
life had been rather quiet and humdrum hitherto, but he was already 
rejoicing Kate’s heart by talking of the wider interests and more ex- 
tended connection which he must cultivate for the sake of his young 
' wife. 

Verena had not thought of marriage till her father forced Mr. Grey 
I upon her, working the spell which never failed, “for Mara’s sake.” 

Verena preferred an old lover to a young one. It was less like be- 
, ginning life afresh, and she wanted no pretence of romance. Mr. 
Grey was quiet, and had studious tastes like herself; she expected 
to lead a peaceful, retired life with him. As for the sister who formed 
part of his household, Verena pictured her a middle-aged lady, who 


30 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


was used to be a good deal alone, and would go her own way, leav- 
ing Verena to go hers. 

Mr. Grey had told Verena not to answer his letter; he was coming 
to Folkestone on the following Saturday. He thought that this 
would make a refusal less easy, but it left him several days in sus- 
pense. The good-natured Annette was ready to receive him and set 
his mind at rest directly he arrived. 

“It’s all right,” she said. “Easter week.” 

Mr. Grey’s face beamed. 

“ Where is she?” 

“ Taking off her hat. We did not expect you quite so soon. She 
is set on a very quiet wedding. I may as well prepare you for that.” 

“Will you get her wedding-dress and anything that she may 
want?” said Mr. Grey; “but I should like her to buy most of her 
trousseau in Paris.” 

“You must see that she gets it, then. Verena will think herself 
well equipped with two or three black dresses and other things to 
correspond.” 

“I hope that she does not trouble herself about money matters.” 

“Oh no; dear Verena, with her head in the clouds, does not think 
of such mundane matters. She has left everything to me since her 
father’s death.” 

“I don’t think Verena is so dreamy as you would make out. She 
seemed to manage a good deal in your old home. ” 

‘ ‘ Oh yes, and she is very capable. But a sort of lethargy seems to 
have come over her lately. You will have the best wife in the world, 
Mr. Grey; but you must be patient with her at first. Remember she 
is still suffering the fresh grief of her loss. Verena’s feelings are so 
deep that a few months are no more to her than a few days. You 
must not expect her to lift her head for some time to come.” 

“Perhaps change of scene—” began Mr. Grey, and he broke off as 
the door opened. 

Verena’s ideas on the subject of her wedding were very simple. 
She meant to walk to church in her usual dress and marry Mr. Grey. 
Even Mara’s clamorous entreaties to be bridesmaid did not move her. 
Annette and Mara could corqe to church with them ; she wanted no 
one else. 

“We must have our witnesses,” said Mr. Grey. ‘^Mara is too 
young, and I have a sentiment against employing the clerk or the bea- 
dle — though I believe we don’t have such oflScials now. And you must 
have some relation or old friend to give you away. ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by giving away.” 

“ Have you never seen a wedding in an English church f’ 

“i^ever.” 

“But you niust have seen your father married to Annette?” 

“ Ours was a runaway match,” said Annette. “ No,” she added, 
laughing, “I don’t exactly mean that, but we told Verena nothing 
about it till it was done.” 

“ Well, I suppose it is not so very surprising that you should know 
PQt^ing about English weddings, seeing that you have always lived 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


31 


abroad,” said Mr. Grey, “but you must have some one to give you 
away all the same.” 

“ I don’t know any one.” 

“ Then I must find somebody. And I must have a best man. I 
will not infiict any more guests upon you. But do let poor little 
Mara wear a white frock and call herself a bridesmaid. I suppose 
you could not bring yourself to wear white, Verena?” 

“ Yes, I could, if you wished it.” 

“Black is supposed to be unlucky at a wedding. And I have 
never seen you in anything else.” 

“I suppose I ought not to wear black,” said Annette, who did 
not in the least wish to do so. 

“Is not gray usually worn by widows?” said Mr. Grey. 

“A pale silver gray would look lovely,” replied Annette, who 
felt that she might as well secure her own wedding-dress. 

“ Yes, you three will make a charming trio,” observed Mr. Grey. 
“ I only regret that there will be nothing but three ugly old fellows 
to match or rather to contrast with you.” 

Everything had been settled except the day. Mr. Grey waited 
till he was alone with Verena to ask if it might be the Saturday be- 
fore Easter. They were walking on the Lees after church when he 
put his question. But Easter was less a holiday than a festival of 
the Church to Verena, and she had set her heart on keeping it with 
^all observance. She could not be married before Tuesday at the 
’earliest. 

“I am afraid that you are very High-church,” said Mr. Grey, 
playfully. 

‘ ‘ No, indeed. Annette calls me a Puritan ! But I love our church 
service, and there seem to be more services at the high churches 
than at the low. Remember how long I have been banished from 
England. I used to envy the French girls their frequent services 
and their beautiful cathedrals. They tell me that our own cathe- 
drals are as fine, but I have never seen one.” 

“ I will take you to Westminster Abbey and the Temple church.” 

“ And is there any church near you, where I can go every day if 
1 like?” 

“Yes, plenty. Emmeline often goes to St. Andrew’s; she is High- 
church.” 

‘ ‘ But I am not. All my theology is summed up in the Apostles’ 
Creed, I should have been a Roman Catholic long ago if I could 
have accepted their doctrines. There are so many things in their 
religion that seem to answer to our needs.” 

“ May I ask what they are?” 

“ First, the confessional. I wonder how many — women, at least 
— have not sometimes wished for a human confession and absolu- 
tion.” 

“ My dear child, I hope you will never — ” 

“No, I never shall! You don’t understand that it would be no 
comfort to me, because I cannot believe in the benefit of such abso- 
lution. But, if I did, I cap feel y^hat a relief it would be,” 


32 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


'' I don’t think you can have had much to confess hitherto.” 

Mr. Grey thought in his ignorance that her temptations were all 
before her and would come with greater worldly advantages. Verena 
did not answer at once, then she took up a different branch of her 
subject. 

‘ ‘ How many of us must wish that we could offer prayers for our 
dead!” 

“ I can sympathize with that wish,” said Mr. Grey, ♦gently. 

“But you will not sympathize with me on another point. I 
think that my ideas are peculiarly womanish. I feel as if all the 
ills of life could be more easily borne if one had the refuge of a 
convent to fall back upon.” 

“You will think me prosy and commonplace if I talk of our du- 
ties in the world being more important than our duties out of it.” 

“I seem to have no duties in the world, now that my father is 
gone, only pleasures.” 

“ Have 1 no claims? I hope to make some soon.” 

“Oh yes, but you have done without me so long that I cannot 
feel necessary to you. I am not sure that I shall add to your hap- 
piness. I don’t think that I am the sort of person to bring happi- 
ness or good-fortune to any one.” 

“You are rather morbid, my dearest; you have brought a great 
deal of happiness to me already. My life, before you came, looks 
so dull and gray that I cannot think how I bore it. It is true that 
you are not a sunbeam like Mara, neither are you a butterfly like 
Annette.” 

‘ ‘ I was never a bit like Mara. I hope that her sunshine will 
never be clouded. I think that I could bear anything for myself if 
Mara was sure of a happy life. She seems meant for it,” added 
Verena, half apologetically. 

“We will make her life as bright as we can, as unlike her ill- 
omened name as possible.” 

‘ ‘ My father chose her name. I wanted her to be called Gabrielle. ” 

Mr. Grey providently made a note of the name, as Verena went 
on; 

‘ ‘ My mother named me out of her favorite Sintram, and the other 
heroine is Gabrielle. She is the happy character in the book. ” 

“ And Verena is the heart-broken wife and mother who has taken 
refuge in the cloister, as my Verena would like to do without equal 
cause.” 

“I never thought that Verena had any business in the cloister 
when her son wanted her so badly. ” 

Verena had never spoken of her own feelings to Mr. Grey before, 
and he felt as if he had made some way with her; but he did not 
understand her in the least. Her “ churchiness,” as he called it, 
seemed to him a common feature of girl-life. He did not know 
how the pettiness of worldly things jarred on Verena, how the very 
stillness and solemnity of a church harmonized with her tone of 
thought, how the language of prayer and confession, which may 
sound almost exaggerated to some easy-going people, was the true 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


33 


I 

I 


utterance of Verena’s feelings. He had no key to the heart of a 
high-strung girl whose life was the expiation of a sin of which she 
was not guilty. 

While Verena kept Lent with the severity that was congenial to 
j her, Mr. Grey was busy and happy, working hard at his briefs, yet 
' finding time to have his house in Russell Square beautified. He 
had thought of moving westward, but decided on waiting till Verena 
; could choose a house for herself. He fitted up a nursery for Mara, 
much to Emmeline’s disgust ; she disliked children, and was not 
prepared for this addition to their household. 

“I did not know that he was going to marry the family,” she 
i grumbled to Kate. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! that is a matter of course where an old man marries a 
j young wife. You may be thankful that she has not half a dozen 
|i sisters. I think you are let off easily with only one, young enough 
1 , to be kept in the nursery.” 

Mr. Grey had chosen a comparatively young man for his grooms- 
' man, a Mr. Wilson, who occupied chambers below his own, and was 
' often employed as his junior. To give Verena away, he could think 
I of no more suitable person than his family lawyer, Mr. Leigh. He 
i had wished to present both to Verena before the day fixed for the 
i ceremony, but Mr. Leigh was spending his Easter at Bournemouth, 
and, travelling across country on Bank Holiday, he arrived too late 
. to be seen that day. The wedding was to take place at nine o’clock, 

; and a quarter before that hour Mr. Grey and his best man repaired 
I to the church, while Mr. Leigh went alone to the house on the Lees. 

I When Annette received him, looking very pretty in her gray dress 
I and white bonnet, he took her for the bride. She was rather like 
what he expected. He had not time to discover his mistake before 
a very different and much more startling vision appeared before 
him. 

Verena wore a long white cashmere dress made in the fashion 
that is called princesse. Thanks to Annette’s care, it fitted like a 
glove. A white chip bonnet, trimmed with small ostrich feathers, 
rested on the wonderful hair which Mr. Grey had vainly tried to 
describe. No ornaments, no fiowers except the bouquet her bride- 
groom had sent her; he had not asked her to wear the rwiere of 
diamonds which he gave as a wedding-present, and it would have 
marred the effect of her simple dress. 

Mr. Leigh was as much astonished as Mr. Grey had himself been 
by Verena’s first appearance, but no line of poetry rose to his lips. 
If he had expressed his feelings, they would most likely have found 
vent in the expression, “Confound his luck!” The good-humored 
patronage with which he had been prepared to receive the girl, of 
whom he knew nothing except that she was young and poor, was 
impossible. He fell at once into the second place, responding to 
Verena’s graciousness with the humility of a subject to a sovereign. 

Mr. Leigh thought that he had never seen so self-possessed a 
bride, yet it needed all Verena’s strength to carry her through. 

The only person who would have fcen a real support to her was 

3 


34 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


gone. It seemed to mark her desolation that she had to accept this 
stranger as a sort of substitute for her father. As they walked up the 
church, made beautiful by its Easter flowers, Verena saw nothing. 
She moved mechanically, and mechanically she went through the 
service. They might have married her to Mr. Leigh or Mr. Wilson 
for anything that she would have known. She could not even throw 
her heart into her special vows and prayers as she would fain have 
done, yet her whole being was one vague prayer — an unconscious 
prayer against retribution. 

Little is asked of a bride except that she should look pretty, and, 
as Verena fulfilled this condition to perfection, no one found fault 
with her for being somewhat still and statuesque. The little brides- 
maid was in wild spirits, and Annette gladly threw off the restraints 
of widowhood with her widow’s dress. No one could complain of 
dulness at the wedding-breakfast, which was really a breakfast to 
most of the company. 

There was a hasty change of dresses that they might all go to the 
pier to see the bride and bridegroom start for Boulogne. Verena 
had begged to stay there one day that she might visit her father’s 
grave. This did not recommend itself to Mr. Grey as a suitable di- 
version for their wedding-day, but to Verena there seemed nothing 
incongruous in the association. She longed for her father on this 
day, and to go to his grave seemed to bring her a little nearer to 
him. Perhaps she forgot that a wedding is usually accounted a 
festivity. 

When she came into Annette’s room, dressed for her journey, 
Verena’s courage suddenly failed. She, who was seldom demon- 
strative, clasped Mara. in her arms and kissed her passionately. 

“I have never left you before, my darling,” she cried, through 
her tears. t 

Mara did not respond to her passion. Children seldom do. She , 
struggled out of her arms and ran away, eager to get back to the fun . 
down-stairs. Then Annette’s ready tears flowed, and she clung to 
Verena with real affection. 

“My poor darling,” she said, “I am going to be so happy— and 
you—” 

Verena gently withdrew herself. 

“You will write to me every day and tell me that all is well, and 
you will be very careful of Mara, will you not?” Then, kissing her, 
she added, “There is no ill-will between us, is there, Annette? I 
hope that you will be very happy.” 

“Let me take your little basket, Verena, ’’said Mr. Grey as the 
boat moved off from the pier. 

“No, thank you, I would rather keep it myself.” 

“I think our breakfast went off very well. What a little flirt that 
baby Mara is! She is quite ready to follow in her mother’s footsteps. 
Perhaps it is' as well that she is going to be removed from that in- 
fluence so early.” 

“ Do you find fault with Mara’s manner?” asked Verena, anxiously. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


35 


“ Oh no, it is the prettiest manner in the world now, but I should 
not care to see her grow up just like her mother. Annette is a born 
flirt.” 

“Did she flirt to-day?” 

Mr. Grey laughed. 

“I think it would have been impossible to do more flirting in the 
time. But Mara is a dangerous rival even now. She appropriated 
the older man, and only left the younger one for her- mother. Mr. 
Leigh was almost poetical about you ; but I am afraid Mara cut you 
out. ” 

“Didn’t she look pretty in her white frock?” 

“Yes, more like a flower than ever. I don’t quite know where 
she got that piquant little face from. She is not like Annette, still 
less like your father, and she has not the slightest resemblance to 
you. But then you are like your own mother, only far handsomer.” 

“ Do you remember my mother?” asked Verena. 

“ Yes, I knew her when she first married. Since I met you I have 
thought a good deal about her, and tried to recall as much as I 
could.” 

Mr. Grey had struck on a happy subject; it kept Verena’s atten- 
tion engaged during their short, smooth passage. She had a childish 
recollection of her mother, and had sometimes asked her father ques- 
tions, but this fresh account seemed to fill out the outline of the 
picture which her faithful heart had kept. 

“Do you wish to go to the cemetery to-day?” asked Mr. Grey, 
when they arrived at Boulogne. “We shall have time to-morrow.” 

“Oh! I would much rather go to-day. I should like to go at 
once, if you don’t mind.” 

“ Shall we drive?” 

“ Yes; we shall get there sooner.” 

When they drew near the grave, Verena asked if she might go to 
it alone. 

“ I want to be very quiet,” she said. 

“ Tell me how soon I shall come for you.” 

“ Would you think half an hour too long?” 

Mr. Grey did not stay in the dismal place, as he considered it. He 
strolled along the road, looking frequently at his watch. 

The time did not seem long to Verena. The cemetery was de- 
serted at that mid-day hour. She could kneel on the grass and have 
her cry out in peace. 

“ Oh, father,” she half murmured, “I have done what you wished, 
but you can never advise me any more. ” 

After a time she dried her tears, and, opening her basket, took out 
the bridal bouquet which Mr. Grey had given her. Its beauty was 
untarnished. There was a long piece of white ribbon attached, with 
which she bound it to the rail surrounding the tomb. This seemed 
0 give her some relief. She turned, with almost a smile to greet 
ler husband. 

But it gave him a pang to see that she had placed his flowers on a 
"rave 1 


36 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


CHAPTER V. 

Spring in Paris, with a beautiful young bride, an easy conscience, 
and full pockets. It sounds pleasant, and pleasant Mr. Grey found 
it, yet it was not all that he had hoped for. Believing that all 
women loved to spend money, he had brought Verena to Paris that 
she might revel in enjoyment of the finest shops in the world. And 
it seemed that he had found the one woman for whom shopping and 
spending had no charms. Mr. Grey, old bachelor though he had been, 
took a pleasure in women’s dress, and considered himself rather an 
artist in the matter. Fortune had sent him a magnificent lay figure, 
but a lay figure it remained. 

Verena wore everything that he bought for her submissively, but 
he could see that fine feathers gave his fine bird no pleasure. Yet 
they became her well, for even more than most women of her day 
Verena paid for dress. But it was a sacrifice on her part to exchange 
the plain stuff dresses, cloth jackets, and simple hats of her girlhood 
for the masterpieces of Worth. She liked to pass unnoticed, and 
would excuse herself on the ground that her father had always en- 
couraged her to dress plainly, and to wear a veil out-of-doors — not a 
flimsy, coquettish bit of net, but something that really hid the face. 

“ Now, of course I ought to obey you,” she would say. 

A woman may, perhaps, be a shade too filial for a husband mori 
than twice her own age. Mr. Grey would have forgiven a goo' 
deal of wilfulness for the sake of a little spontaneous affection 
Even the pretence of warmth which some women make would not 
have been disagreeable to him. Yet he could find no fault with a 
wife who was never ungracious or ill-tempered, and who was even 
too gentle to be accused of coldness. 

One day Mr. Grey gave Verena a pretty purse filled with French 
money. 

“That is to spend,” he said. 

“Just as I like?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then I will buy Annette some long kid gloves. She is so fond ^ 
of them; and she never had a really good pair. And, James, should 
you mind if I gave Annette some of my trousseau? There is more 
than I can wear out in a lifetime.” 

‘ ‘ Do what you like with it. Is Annette thinking of getting mar- 
ried?” 

“Oh! how could you guess?” 

“ I knew that she had an admirer, and your father always seeme. 
to expect that she would soon console herself.” 

“I am so glad you know it; I dreaded telling you. And yo 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


are not nearly so much shocked as I expected. I was very angry 
at first.” 

“When you are as old as I am, you will be more tolerant. Does 
Annette know anything about this man she is going to marry?” 

“Yes; he is a silk-merchant at Lyons, and very well off. His 
name is Achille Dagomet. I am afraid that they mean to be mar- 
ried very soon; but 1 cannot quarrel with Annette.” 

“Well, since you have forgiven her, suppose we buy her a wed- 
ding present, to show our good-will. A necklet, perhaps, like I 
gave you when we were first engaged. She seemed to like that.” 

“That would be very nice. Annette is so fond of jewellery.” 

“ And I want you to help me choose something pretty for Emme- 
line and my cousin Kate.” 

“Oh yes.” 

“Arid the loveliest doll that a Paris shop can produce for Mara.” 

Vereua looked delighted. It was only for herself that she had no 
wants and no wishes. 

“You ought to have married Annette,” she remarked one day, 
when her husband scolded her (with a mildness suited to the honey- 
moon) for having dressed too plainly when they were going to drive 
in the Bois. “ She would have suited you exactly.” 

“There is moderation in all things,” said Mr. Grey. “I don’t 
want a woman whose soul can never rise above a milliner’s shop. 
But you are a sort of monster, Verena, a contradiction in terpas — 
some people would call you — a woman without vanity.” 

“ Not quite that.” 

“Then a woman without any love of dress. Confess now, is it 
because you think that your beauty is beyond need of its aid?” 

“No, indeed, when I first put on my new things, and you made 
me stand before the long glass, I was surprised to see how well I 
looked.” 

“ And did the sight give you no pleasure?” 

“Yes; and I will tell you why,” said Verena, with one of her rare 
touches of playfulness. “I thought, ‘ Mr. Grey is a good man and 
very kind to Mara and me; I am glad that he should have a pretty 
wife. ’ ” 

A few such gracious speeches carried Mr. Grey happily through 
his honey-moon, but it pained him a little to see how Verena’s spirits 
ro:,v. when they turned their faces homeward. She was all smiles 
when the boat entered Folkestone harbor, and they saw Annette 
and Mara standing on the pier. A very happy family-party re- 
turned to the house on the Lees. Mr. Grey felt that warmth and 
brightness had come into his life with his marriage. 

The present-giving was a great success; it was difficult to say 
whether the grown-up child or the baby seemed the more delighted. 

“How alike they are!” was as usual Mr. Grey’s comment. 

Only one day could be spent at Folkestone; then came another 
partino- for Annette had refused Mr. Grey’s invitation to return with 
them to Loudon. She was left weeping on the platform as the tram 
bore them off. 


38 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


They arrived at Charing Cross late in the afternoon. Mara, who . 
had been full of life during the early part of the journey, had fallen 
asleep in Yerena’s arms. 

“You had better give her to Lisette now, ” said Mr. Grey, and 
Yerena resigned her rather unwillingly; but when her husband had 
put her into the brougham, she stretched out her arms imploringly. 

“ Oh, let me have Mara,” she cried, as Lisette was bearing her off 
to a cab. 

The child was wide awake and alert by the time they reached 
Russell Square. She was the first to jump out and enter the house. i 
Emmeline had come into the hall to receive her sister-in-law. She 
wore full evening dress and had an air of importance, very suggest- j 
ive of the mistress of the house. She took no heed of Mara, but the I 
child ran up to her with out-stretched hands and uplifted face, mov- 
ing Emmeline, in spite of herself, to kiss her. ; 

Then she embraced Yerena and repeated her little prepared speech 
of welcome. But Mara still held on to her dress. 

“Who are you?” she asked. 

“I am your new sister,” said Emmeline, graciously. 

Mara put her pretty head on one side and regarded her critically. 

“You can’t be a sister,” she said, speaking, as Mara always did, 
with peculiar distinctness; “you must be a mamma.” 

Emmeline fiushed scarlet. 

“Then I suppose my brother must be a grandpapa ” she said, 
spitefully. 

Mara was puzzled for a moment ; then, following the direction of 
Emmeline’s eyes, she threw herself, in her caressing way, on Mr. 
Grey. 

“He is my dear Uncle James,” she said; this being the name he 
had taught her to call him by. 

“It is time little girls were in bed. I shall carry you up,” said 
her “dear Uncle James.” 

“On your back!” shouted Mara. 

Mr. Grey compounded the matter by placing her on his shoulder, 
and so carried her up the broad staircase, Yerena following. Em- 
meline looked after them discontentedly. She had meant to do the 
honors of the house herself. 

Yerena lingered in the nursery till the gong sounded, then she 
threw off her hat and ran down-stairs. Mr. Grey met her half-way, 
and took her to the dining-room where Emmeline was waiting. She 
gave one displeased glance at Yerena’s travelling dress, and then 
seated herself in her usual place at the head of the table. 

“We will treat you like a visitor to-day, Yerena,” said Mr. Grey, 
placing her at the side. 

It was a dull dinner. Yerena certainly did nothing to enliven it; 
she sat pale and silent. Emmeline, who had fixed notions on the 
subject of beauty, eyed her with disfavor, and decided that she was 
a much overrated woman. Mr. Grey did not follow the ladies at 
once to the drawing-room; he thought in a vague way that they 
would make friends if left together. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


39 


Emmeline led the way to the handsome room which had been re- 
furnished. She had abstained from using it till this evening. She 
looked at Verena to see the effect produced; but Verena, who cared 
as little for upholstery as she did for millinery, went straight to the 
window and tried to see out. 

“Does this look into the garden?” she asked. 

“It looks on the square.” Then, in a would-he hospitable man- 
ner, Emmeline went on, “ What kind of chair do you like, Verena? 
We have a great variety here.” 

“Thanks, I like a high-backed chair— a prie-dieu. Oh! I don’t 
see one, but this will do just as well,” taking the first that came. 

A. prie-dieu! I should think not; they are most old-fashioned. 
All this furniture is modern. James has had the room entirely re- 
furnished for you; he will be disappointed if you don’t admire it.” 

“ Oh, why did he get anything new for me?” 

“Everything is new in your bedroom too; Iiow do you like 
that?” 

“ I have not seen it.” 

“But you must have left your things there.” 

“ No, I left them in the nursery.” 

“ How very odd!” 

“I will fetch them down. I want to see if Mara is asleep.” 

“Don’t go yourself, I will send for them.” Then, with a sudden 
recollection, she asked, “ Verena, what could the child mean by call- 
ing me a mamma?” 

“ She is used to a very young and pretty mamma,” replied Vere- _ 
na, diplomatically. 

“ Oh, ’’somewhat mollified, “am I like her?” 

“ Well, no — except that you have brown eyes and hair.” 

“ Ah, that would be quite enough. What a pretty child your lit- 
tle sister is.” 

Verena smiled assent. 

“I think,” continued Emmeline, “she must be very like what I 
was at her age.” Verena looked aghast. “My mother has often 
told me what a beautiful child I was, and how people used to stop 
me in the street. James was a handsome boy, too. Do you think 
us alike?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“Of course I am so much younger and — better-looking; but peo- 
ple say that we have the same expression. Just look at me how.” 

Emmeline had fixed her face, as an inexperienced sitter often does 
for a photograph, till it became utterly unmeaning. * Now, expres- 
sion happened to be Mr. Grey’s strong point. 

Verena laughed; she had not thought much about her husband’s 
looks, but she felt sure that it was an injury to compare him with 
his sister. 

“I cannot see any resemblance,” she repeated. 

“Am I like what you expected? Of course James told you a 
good deal about me.” 

Verena felt this slightly embarrassing, for Mr. Grey had mentioned 


40 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


little beyond the bare fact of his sister’s existence. But Emmeline 
did not wait for an answer. 

“I have always lived with him, and we have been everything to 
each other.” Then, with an unsuccessful attempt at playfulness, 
she went on, “I don’t think many sisters would have received a 
wife under the circumstances so cordially as I have done.” 

Verena was spared the awkwardness of a reply, for Mr. Grey came 
in at the moment, and she escaped to the nursery. 

“ What do you think of her?” asked the proud husband. 

“ She is not nearly so pretty as I expected, and, if you will pardon 
my saying so, I find her very stupid.” 

Mr. Grey lost his temper. 

“If you have not even eyes to see her beauty, I cannot wonder 
that 5^ou have not brains to appreciate her abilities.” 

Emmeline maintained a dignified silence for some minutes; then 
began, 

“Verena would not admire this room a bit, and, when I told her 
how you had it all refurnished, she showed no gratitude, only asked 
for a prie-dieu chair.” 

“ She shall have one to-morrow— I mean on Monday.” 

“Mara is fast asleep,” said Verena, returning. 

“And how do you like your house?” asked Mr. Grey. 

“ Very much; the nursery is beautiful. I only wish it was near- 
er my room.” 

“Why, you don’t mind stairs?” 

“No, but I like to hear if Mara cries in the night, though she 
scarcely ever does.” 

“James would enjoy having a crying child in the next room, I 
should think,” observed Emmeline. 

Verena laughed good-humoredly. 

“Forgive me, James, I don’t want you to be disturbed. And 
thank you for making your house so pretty for me, but I should 
have been quite content with the things you were used to. ” 


CHAPTEK VI. 

Next day was Sunday. Emmeline was down first, and secured 
her place at the head of the table. 

“ Is Verena coming down to prayers?” she asked, as her brother 
came in. 

“Yes; have the gong sounded.” 

The servants had all filed in and taken their places, w^hen a light, 
scampering sound was heard on the stairs, and Mara ran in, followed 
by Verena. The child behaved decorously enough during prayers, 
but the moment they were over she jumped up and seized the near- 
est servant by the hand. 

“ Where is my place?” she asked. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


41 


“ In the nursery,” said Emmeline, with decision. 

“Oh, let her breakfast with us,” cried Verena, looking at her 
husband; “ she has. never had her meals in a nursery, and she is so 
I good, she will not be the least trouble.” 

I Of course Verena had her way, but Mara was perhaps excited by 
the change of scene, for her behavior scarcely justified Verena’s con- 
fidence. She asked loudly for everything that took her fancy, 
stretching a dimpled arm across to point at the dishes. She chat- 
tered continually, and, when Emmeline sharply bade her be quiet, 
she turned confidentially to Verena with the audible inquiry, 

“ Isn’t she cross?” 

“Are you going to the Temple church with me, Verena?” asked 
Mr. Grey. 

“Me too!” cried Mara. 

“ She is very good in church,” said Verena, with perhaps a shade 
of misgiving in her tone. 

Mr. Grey had seen her at church. He remembered that she usu- 
ally climbed into Verena’s lap and went to sleep there. He had 
thought what a pretty picture the two made, yet he did not wish his 
bride to make her first appearance before his brother benchers with 
a sleeping child in her arms. 

“I think that she had better stay at home this morning,” he said. 

“But I like to go to church,” said Mara; “people ought to go to 
church.” 

“Lisette shall take you for a nice walk,” said Mr. Grey. 

“ Can they go to the Park and feed the ducks?” asked Verena, 
with vague recollections of her own early childhood in London. 

Mara’s face brightened. 

“Well, it is rather a long way, ’’replied Mr. Grey, “and Lisette 
does not know London.” 

Mara’s face changed suddenly. Verena’s fell, as she saw pre- 
monitory symptoms of a cry. Mr. Grey hastened to offer consola- 
tion. 

“ Go in the square with Lisette this morning, and in the afternoon 
I will take you both to the Zoo.” 

“ Oh, that will be nice,” cried Verena,' joyfully, “ to see lions and 
bears and monkeys,” she explained to the child. 

Mara shrieked with delight; she fell off her chair, seized Mr. Grey 
by the neck and hugged him. 

“ How very French Mara is in her ways,” said Emmeline. “ I sup- 
pose that comes of having a French mother.” 

“ Annette is only half French,” said Verena; “ we consider Mara 
quite a little English girl.” 

Mr. Grey here broke in, 

“Verena, my pet, it is time to dress yourself.” 

“Must I change my dress?” 

“ Yes, put on your black silk and my favorite bonnet.” 

“Do you always tell your wife what to wear?” asked Emmeline, 
as Verena left the room, taking Mara to play in the bedroom while 
she dressed. 


42 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Just at first, because she is good enough to study my tastes. 
Are you going with us, Emmeline?” 

“ No, I shall go to my own church. James, that child is terribly 
spoiled, and if she were not so pretty every one would think her a 
little nuisance.” 

‘ ‘ She is very pretty, certainly. ” 

“ Yes, is she not rather like what I was at her age?” 

Mr. Grey might have secured some portion of Emmeline’s favor 
for the child by saying “ Yes,” but he was foolish enough to reply, 

“Not a bit.” 

He felt a little disturbed by the jarring elements in his household, 
but forgot them when Verena came down in her loveliest looks, with 
a smiling request for his approbation. 

“ How kind of you to think of the Zoo,” she said, gratefully, as 
they went out. 

Mr. Grey was on the point of saying that he feared Verena might 
have scruples about going to so gay a place on Sunday, but forbore 
to disturb her conscience. Verena made no reference to Emmeline; 
and, if she felt worried, she was soothed by the service in the beau- 
tiful church, with such music as she had only hitherto heard in a 
Roman Catholic cathedral. Verena had no thought for anything 
else, but Mr. Grey noted the curious and admiring looks that were 
bent on his wife. Looking at her beside the wives whom his co- 
temporaries had chosen in their youth, the ex-bachelor told himself 
that he had lost nothing by waiting. Some of his friends had pretty 
daughters, it is true, but not one of them could compare with his 
Verena. 

While Mr. Grey was thinking what a lucky fellow he was, he 
caught sight of one of his old bachelor chums. “Poor Jeffreys! 
He had rather neglected him of late. He had chosen a younger 
and sprightlier man for his groomsman, passing by this old friend.” 

Anxious to make up for all omissions, he joined Jeffreys after the 
service, presenting him to Verena, and giving her a hint to ask him 
to luncheon. 

The three walked back to Russell Square together. As Mr. Grey 
opened the door a little figure fiew to meet them, waving a pinafore. 
It was Mara, eager to get dinner over, that they might go to the 
Zoo. 

“ What a lovely child,” said Jeffreys, astonished at the unexpect- 
ed vision. 

‘ ‘ This is my little adopted daughter, ” explained Mr. Grey. ‘ ‘ My 
wife’s half-sister.” 

But Verena drew the little girl away. A fear had seized her lest 
James should think Mara a bore. No one had found her in the 
way in the old home, but here everything seemed different. And 
the formal old bachelor who had walked home with them did not 
look like a lover of children. 

“I don’t know whether you must dine with us, my darling,” she 
said, sadly. 

“Oh yes! John has laid my place.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


4a 


The child had, indeed, assisted at laying the table, and directed 
him to do so. Mara had no notion of being kept in the nursery. 
She had been enjoying the run of the house, and making friends 
•with all the servants, securing for herself a band of devoted adherents. 

“You must be very quiet and good, pet, and only talk when you 
are spoken to; and don’t call out for anything, but ask me in a low 
voice.” 

These instructions were emphasized by many kisses, and a very 
demure little girl was taken down-stairs. 

Verena was too much engrossed by her especial charge to notice 
that her husband motioned her to the head of the table ; neither did 
she perceive that he wished her to entertain his guest. Mara sat, 
with rosy lips pursed up, a model of good behavior, during the 
early part of luncheon. But Verena had wronged Mr. Jeffreys. 
He was particularly fond of children, and instead of attending to 
Emmeline’s conversation, he was bent on drawing out his little op- 
posite neighbor. 

Mara did not need much drawing. She might talk when she was 
spoken to; and she soon forgot Verena’s cautions. It was all Mr. 
Jeffreys’s fault, Verena felt, but her husband might not see that. 
Emmeline looked very angry with the merry child, who engrossed 
all the guest’s attention. She thought her unconventional ways 
vulgar, though Mara was no more vulgar than a kitten. How 
should she understand that she must not address familiar remarks 
to the butler when he was officiating, though she had found him a 
delightful companion while the family were at church? 

Mr. Grey did not mind Mara’s chatter, but he was vexed that his 
wife should seem dull and look uncomfortable when he wanted her 
to appear to advantage. 

“ Are you going with us to the Zoo?” asked Mara, as soon as lunch- 
eon was over, thus solving a difficulty which had occurred to Verena. 
Mr. Jeffreys might keep them in half the afternoon. But the good- 
natured man left them almost directly, expressing warm admiration 
for his friend’s adopted child, but omitting to praise his wife. 

‘ Mr. Grey had prepared a small lecture for Verena; but when she 
' looked at him timidly, with a tender apology for her darling, he had 
, no heart to do anything but laugh at their little ‘ ‘ sunbeam, ” and 
‘ repeat Mr. Jeffreys’s compliments. 

A child’s first visit to the Zoo is an event to be marked with a 
1 white stone, and Mara’s capacity for enjoyment was large. Verena 
I forgot everything in the child’s pleasure. She did not mind the 
' crowds of people, though she had pictured a quiet garden, tenanted 
i only by the beasts and birds. It was a lovely day in April, the 
flowering trees were just coming out, and London was beginning to 
; look at its best. 

I “May we often come here?” asked Verena ; “ on week-days as well 
i as Sundays?” 

“Yes, as often as you like. You must get out into the gardens 
and parks as much as possible ; I don’t want my two birds to pine 
1 in their London cage.” 


44 


A DAUGHTER OE THE GODS. 


There was no fear of Yerena pining in a cage, if she could help 
it. Fresh air, sunshine, flowers, and all the beautiful things of nature 
were life to her. 

While Yerena w^as enjoying herself better than she had yet done 
during her short married life, Emmeline sat with Kate and her 
mother in their lodgings at Bayswater. She had promised to come 
and tell them all abput the bride. 

“Poor James,’’ she was saying, “he has made a great mistake. 
She is the stupidest girl I ever met. Just a flaxen-haired doll, as you 
said, Kate.” 

“ And not such a very pretty doll, after all, from your account.” 

“No, 1 don’t mean to say that many people might not call her 
pretty. She looks rather striking when she is well dressed, as she 
was to-day, and her features are very regular. But I don’t like that 
excessive fairness, and there is no play in the face.” 

“No go, I suppose,” said Kate, “ in her face, or in herself either.” 

“Just so; I need not fear her ever being mistress in my place. 
She has only one idea in her head, and that is to go on muddling 
over the child.” 

“Ah,” said Kate, riding off on a favorite theory, “I always say 
that people with no brains like the society of children. They can 
easily let themselves down to the level. For myself, I would as soon 
pass my time in an idiot asylum as in a nursery.” 

“ No, no, Kate,” said her mother, shaking her head, “you are very 
naughty to talk in that way of dear little children. I wish you had 
some of your own; you would think very differently then.” 

“ Well, mother,” remarked Kate, “ I am surprised that you should 
wish me to present you with grandchildren at present ; I did not ex- 
pect it of you.” 

Mrs. Payn looked as if she did not at all understand her daughter’s 
talk or her ways. She was a prim old lady, whom strangers often 
mistook for a single woman. Her married life of some nine or ten 
years had indeed made but a short episode in her career. Kate had 
been rather an alien from home all her life, and Mrs. Payn got on much 
better with her younger daughter Gertrude. Kate was the visiting 
daughter, having secured to herself, as the elder sister, most of the 
amusement that offered. Gertrude, though now three-and-twenty, 
had been treated almost like a child. She had been an awkward 
girl, and had only lately developed into a fine, good-looking woman, 
but her manners were unformed and she was less popular than Kate. 
Gertrude came in from the afternoon service during Emmeline’s 
visit, but she did not ask any questions about Yerena. “ Gertie was 
so unsympathetic,” Emmeline used to say. But presently Mara was 
mentioned, and Gertie showed interest directly. 

“ How nice for you to have a child in the house!” she cried sud- 
denly, in a loud, clear voice which drowned every other. 

“I hate children,” said Emmeline, “and this one is intolerably 
spoiled ; however, I shall soon put her in her proper place. She is a 
bright little thing.” 

“And pretty?” asked Gertie. 


A DAUGHTEK OF THE GODS. 


45 


Oh yes, she is pretty, if you like/' 

“I suppose the flaxen-haired 4oll style tells better in a child than 
in a woman." 

“No, the sisters are not a bit alike. Mara has golden-brown hair 
and.eyes, and a color like a rose." 

“Golden-brown eyes don’t sound pretty.” 

“They look pretty, though, on this child. Her eyes are bright 
and clear like a jewel. She took a wonderful fancy to me; she 
thought me like her mamma, who is very young and pretty, Yerena 
tells me." 

“ I can’t understand the mother giving up her child," said Mrs. 
Payn; “fancy my having had to give up either of you when your 
dear papa died." 

“It does seem unnatural," said Emmeline, “and I’m sure I wish 
she hadn’t done it. Well, Kate, will you dine with us to-morrow, 
and see Yerena for yourself? I can fetch you about five o’clock, 
and perhaps you will give me some tea. We shall escape the child 
then." 

Mara was not Emmeline’s only grievance. She kept finding fresh 
ones, and on Monday morning she determined to have them out 
with Yerena. But Yerena had walked to Chambers with her hus- 
band, Lisette and Mara following, that she should not return alone. 
They did not go straight back to Russell Square, but strolled along 
the Embankment; then plunged into a labyrinth of streets, and final- 
ly took a hansom to the Park, where they passed an hour or two. 

Emmeline wondered what had become of them ; she grew impa- 
tient, and her grievances rankled. Her brother had deposed her 
from her place at the head of the table the evening before ; on her 
asking whether his wife was to be in all respects considered the 
mistress of the house, he had replied, 

“ Of course she must be the mistress; but you can arrange togeth- 
er about the management, only let there be no quarrelling." 

“ I never quarrel," said Emmeline, which was in a sense true, for 
she always expressed her own views, and let others accept or resent 
them as they pleased. 

Mr. Grey had left things to shake down of themselves in a very 
happy-go-lucky manner, but Emmeline wanted to have her position 
recognized. Not even the pettiest German prince ever liked to ab- 
dicate, neither does a woman resign the command of her little do- 
mestic kingdom without a pang. Emmeline did not mean to part 
with more power than she could help; but Yerena should not feel at 
liberty to upset the household and give what orders she pleased, 
while all the trouble was thrown on her own shoulders. 

‘ ‘ I am not going to become a house-keeper after being mistress all 
these years," she thought. 

Mr. Grey had not said a word to Yerena on the subject, neither 
had she considered it ; she was quite unprepared to be called to ac- 
count when she came back from her walk. 

“ We have been in the Park,,^’ she said, cheerfully, “I had no 
idea that London, was so nice." 


46 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“Do send the child away, Verena; I want to talk to you.” Then 
Emmeline began: “ If Mara is to take her meals with us, you can- 
not expect my servants to carry up meals for your nurse.” 

“Of course not; she can carry them up herself, or could she not 
take her meals with them? That would be much nicer for her.” 

“We shall see, but I want to talk to you about other things. We 
must come to some arrangement. If I am not to sit at the head of 
the table, or to have any voice in the arrangements of the house, I 
don’t see whj^ I should have the trouble of house-keeping. Here have 
I been all this morning giving orders and looking after everything, 
while you have been running about enjoying yourself.” 

“I am so sorry,” said Yerena; “I am afraid that I was very 
thoughtless, but it shall not happen again. I will begin tO do all the 
house-keeping to-morrow; and, Emmeline, I don’t in the least want 
to sit at the head of the table, but I suppose I must, if James likes 
me to. But I won’t forget to give the orders.” 

This ready acceptance of her duties was not at all what Emme- 
line desired. 

“ I am afraid you are too ignorant to manage a house like this,” 
she said. 

“ But I can learn like other wives.” 

“James is very particular, and you would not make him comfort- 
able. Besides, you would spend twice what I do.” 

“James never seenris to think of money; he will forgive me if I 
waste a little at first, and you can tell me what sort of things he likes 
for his dinner.” 

“You don’t know the labor of conducting a large household.” 

“ Oh, I am not afraid of work , I have been used to make ever}^- 
thing I wore, and to mend for the others, and make Mara’s things as 
well, and now it seems I am to buy every thing, and never do a stitch 
of work unless I like.” 

‘ ‘ Still I think it would be better, on the whole, for me to continue 
to give orders and manage things as I have done so long. I shall 
do it a great deal better than you ; but I think it only fair that you 
should not interfere or give counter-orders.” 

“I don’t quite know what you want,” replied Verena. “You 
scold me for not doing the house-keeping, and then tell me you 
mean to do it yourself. I should like to talk it over with James. I 
will do what he wishes.” 

“My dear Verena, you must not bother a man about domestic 
matters. James particularly told me that we were to settle it be- 
tween ourselves.” 

“But he did not say thr^ you were to settle it all your own way,” 
thought Verena; but she lUy said, “I don’t think you will find me 
troublesome or interfering, unless it may be in the matter of Mara. 
I suppose it is natural that you should find a child in the way, never 
being used to one. But she is such a dear little thing, I think you 
will soon learn to like her. And I cannot shut her away in a nur- 
sery, to be dull and miserable, when she has been used to live with 
us all her life. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


47 


Verena looked imploring, but her tenderness only seemed weak- 
ness to Emmeline. 

“You are quite foolish about the child,” she said, impatiently; 
“she is a nice little thing enough, but I cannot see why she shouldn’t 
live in a nursery like any other baby. You are worse than a fond 
mother. 

Emmeline felt an^ry with Verena, whose straightforwardness up- 
set all her calculations. She did not want her conversation repeated 
to James; and, of course, Verena would give it all her own way. 
Still the discussion had passed off without a quarrel, and when Em- 
meline asked Verena to go shopping with her in the afternoon, Ve- 
rena agreed graciously. 

“ James told me to call on your aunt,” she said. 

“But it is her place to call on you first.” 

“Is it? but he said that he should like me to go and see her, be- 
cause she was an old lady and his mother’s sister.” 

“lam going there to tea, but I don’t know that they will want a 
stranger.” 

“ But they cannot mind me; I am nobody.” 

“James has made you somebody,” replied Emmeline, not alto- 
gether displeased. “I am going to Marshall’s,” she said, as they 
seated themselves in the brougham. “ I want to get a mantle, and 
then I shall look at their bonnets. I mean to put on slight mourn- 
ing. I never thought of it till I saw you in your heavy black; but 
as we shall always go about together it will not look well for me to 
be in colors. I look very well in black ; now, it is very unbecoming 
to you.” 

“ "Why, you never saw me in anything else!” 

“No, but I can guess. Black swallows up pale, washed-out look- 
ing people. I hope that you will soon leave it off. No one wears 
mourning long now, and it is a pity that people should see you to 
such a disadvantage at first. ” 

! “ I don’t care so long as James is satisfied with me.” 

“ Oh, that is silly; a wife should try to do her husband credit, 

' and you must not think that you look well because James says so. 

I Why, he told us you were a perfect beauty.” 
j Verena bore these refiections on her looks very good-humoredly. 

“ I am sorry you were so disappointed.” 

“ Well, of course I was. I don’t mean to say that you are not 
j good-looking, and you have a good deal of style. You are a good 
► peg to hang fine clothes on, and that is something in these days. ” 
i “ What would James say?” thought his wife. “I must never be 
; so naughty as to tell him.” 

i She was too amused to notice Emmeline’s next remark, and drew 
I down a reproof. 

' “How absent you are, Verena; that will never do for James, he 
! hates moony peojDle. ” 

i Verena disliked a close carriage, and Emmeline’s incessant chatter 
I wearied her. She was glad to get out at a shop. But Emmeline 
!i would not let her alone ; she liked to have another opinion, provided 


48 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


that it supported her own. Verena thought to herself that all the 
mantles looked very well on Marshall’s young lady, and ver}^ badly 
on Emmeline, who was not exactly “a good peg to hang fine clothes 
on.” Her want of interest brought Emmeline down on her again. 

“I am afraid you don’t think enough of dress, Verena; that will 
never do for James, he is most particular.” 

“ Why, Emmeline, you would make a bogey of James! only I 
know him too well to be frightened.” 

“ Well, he told us you always dressed like a shop-girl before you 
were married. How* the people do stare at us! I suppose it'is be- 
cause our styles are so unlike— we set each other off.” 

“ I hate to be stared at,” said Verena, impatiently. It was some- 
thing quite new to her to be bored. In the old wandering Bohemi- 
an life such a thing was unknown. “ Will all James’s relations be 
like this?” she wondered, as they drew up in Westbourne Park. 

But Verena took at once to Mrs. Payn and her two lively daugh- 
ters. The comfortable drawing-room, with its well-spread tea-table, 
looked more home-like than anything in her own house. And Mrs. 
Payn soon completed her conquest by saying, 

“I wish you had brought your dear little sister with you. Gertie 
and I are so fond of children.” 

“Do bring her soon,” chimed in Gertie; “there are no children 
in our family, and it is such a treat to see one. Bring her to tea or 
to our early dinner, that will be better still.” 

“I should like it very much,” said Mrs. Payn, “only I don’t quite 
know what we should do with the nurse.” 

“But I need not bring a nurse,” cried Verena; “ why, Mara nev- 
er had such a thing till we went to Folkestone, a few weeks ago.” 

“ How did you manage when she was a baby?” asked Kate. 

“Annette and I did everything for her ourselves; we liked it.” 

“Let us settle an early day,” said Gertie; “before you get too 
many engagements. ” 

“ But I hope I shall never have many engagements,” said Verena, 
surprised. 

“ Oh yes, you will,” exclaimed Emmeline; “ every one will begin 
to call on you soon, and to ask you out.” 

“ But I thought James lived very quietly.” 

“ Don’t you like gayety?” asked Kate. 

“ I should hate it, but I never had any.” 

Kate looked at Verena as if she were some curiosity in nature, 
but Verena had taken up a book. It was Hamilton’s “Lectures on 
Metaphysics.” 

“ Are you reading this?” she asked Kate. 

“No, I leave stodgy books to my sister; she is the learned one, ” 
added Kate, with a slight sneer. 

Verena turned to Gertie. 

“ Don’t you like it very much?” 

“ Ye-es, only I am afraid that I don’t quite understand it; you see, 
I have never read any metaphysics before.” 

‘ ‘ I think it is so clear, but then I read it first with my father. I 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


49 


did not begin with it though. My first book was Lewes’s ‘ History of 
Philosophy.’ You would find that quite easy.” 

“ Why, you are quite a blue!” cried Kate. “You will find Gertie a 
congenial spirit. But I fear she is only a would-be blue.*” 

“I have no one to help me,” said Gertie, whose intellectual am- 
bitions were perhaps rather beyond her means. 

“No,” said Kate, taking up a novel, “this is more in my line. 

■ Do you condescend to novels, Verena?” 

‘ ‘ I don’t think I have opened one since I was quite a girl. ” 

“Please don’t call yourself anything else now; you are unfort- 
unately the youngest of the company.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps I ought to say since I was a child. I read a great many 
then. ” 

“Did your father adopt that plan, like the pastry-cooks with their 
boys?” 

“No, he knew nothing about it. When he took me in hand he 
made me read heavy books. He thought it better for my sort of 
disposition, but he did not mind Annette reading novels.” 

1 “ Was she so very steady, then?” 

• “No, I am afraid she was rather frivolous; but novels only 
amused her, while I thought too much about them.” 

“Well,” said Kate, “you will have to read novels now, if it is 
only to talk about them. Don’t suppose that we shall let you shut 
yourself up with Comte and Schopenhauer and all those awful writ- 
ers. I suppose you can read them in the original.” 

“Comte and Schopenhauer did not go to work in precisely the 
same way,” said Verena, slightly amused; “and I am afraid that 
j one original would not do for the two,” she added, 
i Kate, who probably did not distinguish between the Critical and 
i Positive philosophies very accurately, felt the ice a little thin, 
j “We are frivolous young things,” she said; “we want a lively 
I chaperon to take us about. We have been expecting no end of fun 
I ever since we heard of James’s engagement.” 

j “I can’t go out yet,” said Verena; “I only lost my father last 
November.” 

I “But we are looking forward to next season. You will be pre- 
I sented, of course, and then go in for all sorts of gayety.” 

P Verena looked dismayed; she knew little about society, but had 
t: never supposed that lawyers had any part in it. She was ignorant 
! of all distinctions between silk gowns and stuff— even, perhaps, ca- 
pable of including barristers and solicitors in one generic term. Kate 
I went on : 

I “James will be in Parliament next year; he is safe to get a seat 
1 if you canvass for him, and then every one says he will be solicitor- 
general or perhaps attorney-general when the Conservatives come in.” 

“How you run on,” said her mother; “don’t mind her, dear,” 
she added to Verena, whose discomfiture was very apparent; “you 
I will get on in any society with that pretty face. Will you come on 
' Wednesday and hidng little Mara to dinner, if you don’t mind tak- 
ing us as we are. We are only in lodgings, you know,” 


50 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“ I like lodgings,” said Yerena; '‘I have lived in lodgings all my 
life.” . 

“She will never be a beggar on horseback,” remarked Kate, as 
soon as she found herself alone with Emmeline ; ‘ ‘ but, if she is con- 
tent to go afoot, why on earth did she marry James?” 


CHAPTER YIL 

“No, you must not look at yourself yet. Wait till I have quite 
done.” 

Yerena was dressed for a dinner-party, and Kate, who had pressed 
herself into the service, was pinning a splendid spray of white flow- ! 
ers on her dress. Yerena had yielded to her husband’s wish that 
they should accept invitations, but she had acquired no taste for 
society. Callers and invitations made the chief annoyance of her 
new life ; and it was an annoyance that she had not reckoned in her 
bargain. But, since she must give way, she did it graciously ; for 
there was nothing to be gained by an ungracious submission. 

Yerena had discovered that her own position and Mara’s must 
depend in a great measure on her personal popularity. Emmeline 
found plenty of people to think with her that the young wife and 
her little sister were interlopers. They were regarded with a cer- 
tain amount of suspicion by some of Mr. Grey’s old friends. But 
Nature had provided them with weapons. Beauty, grace, gracious- 
ness were horns and claws, and Yerena was prepared to use them 
for Mara’s defence and her own. Had Yerena stood alone, she 
might have fallen contentedly into the second place in the house- 
hold. But, had she stood alone, she would never have married Mr. 
Grey. As it was, she meant to make secure her position, and to 
keep her hold over her husband by every means in her power. 

She had little faith in the endurance of such passion as her beauty 
had inspired, and she as yet underrated the force of Mr. Grey’s af- 
fection. That a man of flfty should form a life-long attachment, 
that he could be capable of the same ardor and constancy as a much 
younger man, seemed impossible to the girl. But he gave her, she 
told herself, all that he had to give, and she would do her best in re- 
turn. She soon found that he would not be satisfled with a beauti- 
ful lay -figure. He liked his wife to do him credit, and was disap- 
pointed if she sat silent in company ; so she would force herself to j 
seem lively and to talk her best. She had done Mr. Grey one griev- j 
ous wrong, and it lulled her conscience in a measure to feel that he I 
was at least happy in his ignorance. Amusement never diverted 
Yerena’s mind from her own secret care; it seemed to weigh more 
heavily upon her when she found herself surrounded by light-heart- 
ed people, and felt what a gulf divided her from them. 

Yerena’s thoughts had strayed from her toilet, while Kate was in- 
tent upon it, 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


51 


“ I have been keeping between you and the glass,” she ran on; “I 
am so afraid of your getting a stray peep. What a famous glass 
that is! I have to do without a long glass at home.” 

“ And I never even saw one till James took me to Paris.” 

“ Never saw one! and with such a face and figure as yours! Did 
you not stand before it all day long?” 

“Will you never be finished, Kate? You are very kind to take 
all this trouble; but I shall scarcely have time to bid Mara good- 
night.” 

“And a very good thing, too. You will let her hug you and 
! crush all your flowers. Please remember they are real. I wish you 
could have worn white, though this- black satin and tulle is very be- 
coming. It looks like a French dress, too. But the bodice might 
be cut lower, and the sleeve ought to be a mere shoulder-strap. It 
is a sin to hide the gifts of Nature. Now your patience shall be re- 
j warded; look at yourself !” 

; But Verena gave a very cursory glance. 

' “I never wore evening dress before, and I don’t think that I 
I like it.” 

i “ She never wore evening dress!” cried Kate. “ ‘ She never tasted 
beer.’ Verena, you are too provoking. Here you have beauty that 
most women would give their souls to possess — ” 
i “Kate!” 

! “ Well, I would give mine, at all events. It is no great things. I 

' am not one of those good people who feel that they have secured a 
j first-class ticket to heaven. ” 

“You are talking this nonsense just to shock me.” 

“I like to shock you, I confess. You are so terribly in earnest. 

; But I wonder how you would really feel if you were suddenly turned 
into a plain little woman like me!” 

“Why are you always talking against your looks, Kate? You 
are quite as good-looking as Emmeline.” 

I “You had better not tell her so; she was rather pretty once. 

' Well, I once heard a proverb, ‘If there is anything bad about you, 

I say it yourself,’ and I laid it to heart. If there is anything bad 
I about you, Verena, I wish you would say it yourself, for I can’t find 
! it out.” 

! “We don’t carry everything on the surface like our looks, you 
i see.” 

“But I have dug below your surface in vain. You are certainly 
clever, and you seem good. But is the goodness real? that is what 
I want to know.” 

1 “ Should you feel at all more satisfied if I said that it was?” 

I “ Yes,” said Kate, looking her suddenly in the face, “for you are 

truthful. You would not tell a falsehood unless it were to answer 
what you thought a sufficient purpose.” 

' Verena winced, and Kate saw it. She went on; 

“No one is quite so good as you seem, Verena; tliat is what both- 
ers me. Only sometimes when you are with Emmeline I have seen 
a shade of irritation which makes me hope that you are human.” 


52 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Verena did not respond to this bid for confidence. But Kato ' 
thought that she had not worked quite in vain as she went down to 
join Emmeline, who greeted her with the exclamation, 

“What a time you have been with Verena! You are getting* 
quite thick with her, ” 

“I ought to be,” said Kate, “for she has just paid me such a 
compliment. She said I was as good-looking as you were!” 

Emmeline’s look was anything but a compliment. 

“ Does Verena think you pretty?” she asked, incredulously. 

“ I am afraid that was scarcely what she meant. If you will for- 
give my saying so, it sounded much more as if she thought that you 
were as plain as I was. From the heights of her beauty Verena 
looks down on such little inequalities of looks as exist between you 
and me.” 

“How ridiculously you go on about Verena’s beauty! I wonder 
you can admire a face without expression.” 

“Without expression! Why, I am always wondering how a girl 
of twenty-one can have felt or suffered enough to get so much ex- 
pression into her face.” 

“ Perhaps she is older than she makes out.” 

“Not with that complexion. Now, don’t you go and let out that 
I told you what she said about our looks, or she will never talk free- 
ly to rne again, and I shall have no chance of finding out her secret.” 

“ It is all your fancy that she has a secret.” 

“No, she is not a bit like other girls, and there must be some rea- 
son for that, I suppose it is only the usual story, that her father 
made her marry James when she was in love with some one else. 
He will either turn up, or she will forget him and begin to enjoy 
the goods the gods provide her.” 

After dinner Kate and Emmeline settled themselves down to a 
long talk about Verena. 

“She is a horrid little sneak,” said Emmeline. “ I told you how^ 
she pretended that I grumbled about the house-keeping, and next 
day James took it all out of my hands. He just said, ‘ There is 
truth in what you have told Verena; it is not fair that you should 
have the trouble of house-keeping since you cannot be mistress of 
the house any longer.’ Would you believe that Verena has never 
asked me a question or consulted me about a thing since?” 

“ What should you have done if she had?” 

“I should have given her a bit of my mind.” 

‘ ‘ So she guessed, apparently. Have things gone pretty smoothly ?” 

“ Of course they have, because the servants know their work. I 
trained them.” 

“Do the servants like her?” 

“ I think she has bewitched them.” 

“Perhaps Verena is a witch. I have had my suspicions. Mother 
and Gertie swear by her.’’ 

“Yes, she and Gertie are a pair.” 

“ They are both so learned, you see. The other day I found them 
with their heads together, and what do you think they were talking 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


53 


about? Verena was trying to explain to Gertie how you can’t con- 
ceive the idea of eternity, I never thought about it, but it’s true, 
you can’t. Gertie was awfully stupid about it; she goes in for be- 
ing clever, but I call her as dull as a post. She has to turn her 
mind round and round before she can get an idea into it.” 

“I don’t see that Verena is a bit cleverer,” said Emmeline, whose 
mind might have resembled Gertie’s if she had made the same praise- 
worthy efforts to use it. 

“I wish she wasn’t,” said Kate; “at all events, she is clever 
enough to twist James round her little finger, and to shunt you with 
the best grace in the world.” 

“You are a nice Job’s comforter, Kate.” 

“Perhaps I am; but haven’t you often told me I was right — 
after the event? And I know that you will never be able to keep 
Verena under unless you can find some means of fettering her, 
something to shake James’s blind faith in her. I don’t want to see 
you fall into a mere cipher, a maiden aunt who is about as much 
regarded as the cat on the hearth-rug.” 

“ I don’t see why I am to be an old maid; I need not keep single 
for James’s sake now.” 

“No; but Verena will bewitch every man who comes near the 
place. I believe she is a quiet flirt, the most dangerous of all. By- 
the-bye, I wanted to ask you about the marriage of that step-mother 
of hers; I did not like to ask Verena, as it seemed a sore subject.” 

“Oh! she has married a swindler, I believe. James came home 
one day and said, ‘ Verena, I have been trying to find out some- 
thing about Achille Dagomet, and I am afraid he is rather a scamp. 
There is no silk-merchant of that name at Lyons, but there was a 
clerk in one of the large houses who was sent away under some- 
what suspicious circumstances; nothing was proved, but you had 
better write and persuade Annette to defer her marriage, at all 
events.’ Verena was in a dreadful way; she wanted to write at 
once, but James said, ‘ Let me dictate your letter, or we shall be 
having you prosecuted for libel.’ (That does not look as if he 
thought her so clever as you do, Kate.) I don’t know whether the 
letter was sent, but next day one came from Annette to say they 
were married.” , , -r 

“This accounts for the mother giving up her child, I suppose. 

“Yes; Verena wanted to know if this man could ever lay claim 
to the child, but James told her she might be quite easy on that point. 
He is Mara’s guardian, you know.” 

“What sort of a man is this Achille Dagomet?” 

“He is quite young, James says, and very good-looking.” 

“Perhaps the step-mother and daughter were both in love with 
him, and the mother won. Annette must be attractive, or Verena’s 
father would never have been such a fool as to give her all his 

^^^Mr. Wilson saw her, and he says she is charming. I don’t think 
he thought much of Verena; he said she had nothing to say for 
herself.” 


54 


A DAUGHTER OE THE GODS. 


Two women gossiping usually find time fly, and the cousins 
were surprised when Verena and,James returned. Mr. Grey was in 
high spirits, and began telling Kate all the pretty things which had 
been said to his bride. Her warmly -expressed admiration had quite 
disguised from him the fact that she disliked Verena. Kate, with- 
out knowing it, was moved by the great political spring of these 
days — “ Why should this woman have so much and I so little?” she 
thought. 

“ There was a rival bride all in white,” said Mr. Grey, “but my 
bride was given the post of honor. ” 

“Was the rival pretty?” asked Kate. 

“Yes, if she had not been in such good company. Did she re- 
mind you of any one, Verena?” 

“No, I scarcely looked at her.” 

“I wonder you did not notice the resemblance; I thought it so 
striking. She was the image of Mara.” 

“ Oh, she cannot have been! I should have seen that directly.” 

“It was something in the expression chiefly, and especially about 
the eyes. Mara’s eyes are very peculiar.” 

“Oh, that sounds as if she squinted,” cried Verena, and her eyes 
are so beautiful.” 

“ So they are; but there is something uncommon (since you won’t 
let me say peculiar) about them, all the same.” 

“I wish I had looked more at the bride,” said Verena; “but 
Lady Copeland was talking to me after dinner. She was so kind, 
asking about Mara. Do you know that she has eight children, 
though she looks so young?” 

“Verena is a born mother,” remarked Kate. 

Verena blushed deeply; but perhaps that was not surprising in so 
young a wife. 

Kate slept that night at Russell Square, and in the morning while 
Verena took counsel with her cook, she allowed herself to be taken 
into the nursery by Mara, who was bent on showing her a new toy. 
Perhaps Lisette could tell her something about Achille Dagomet. 
The lively French girl was always ready for a gossip. 

“Yes; she remembered Monsieur Dagomet. He was handsome 
and gentil. She knew he admired madame. Madame w'as a very 
kind lady, and easy to serve. Oh, yes; she was very good to the 
child, only she did not want always to have her with her, like 
mademoiselle — Madame Grey did. Mademoiselle wanted to do 
everything for the little one. Monsieur, her father, used to scold 
her sometimes for making too much of her. Yes, that was droll; 
but it was droller still, when mademoiselle was going to be married, 
to hear how she prayed madame to be very careful. As if she could 
not be trusted to take care of her own child!” 

Kate did not want to hear anything of Mara. She wished to find 
out about Verena’s lovers. 

“ Did mademoiselle like Monsieur Dagomet?” she asked. 

“Oh! but she never even saw him.” 

“Check,” thought Kate. '‘I am quite on a wrong scent this 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


55 


time.” Then, turning to Lisette, she remarked, ‘‘ You seem to have 
known a good deal more than she did. I wonder how soon you 
found out that Mr. Grey was paying his addresses to mademoiselle?” 

“Ah! that was easy to see, directly he began to make his visits.” 

“ And did mademoiselle seem pleased?” 

“Mademoiselle was a dutiful daughter. She took the husband 
monsieur her father chose for her.” 

“I have not found out anything I did not know before,” thought 
Kate. Yet some of the words that she scarcely heeded now passed 
into her memory, ready to bring forth fruit in due season. 

“Assert yourself,” was Kate’s parting injunction to Emmeline, 
and Emmeline prepared to assert herself on the following day. 

“I have asked a friend to lunch,” she said, meeting Yerena as 
she came in from her morning walk. “ So I have arranged for Mara 
to dine in the nursery.” 

Mara gave a cry of dismay. She associated dining up-stairs with 
the idea of disgrace. 

“But why should Mara be in the way?” asked Yerena. “She 
will keep quite quiet, if she is told to.” 

“But we cannot talk freely before a child; and Mara picks up 
everything. It is a restraint, and my friends are not used to it.” 

Yerena felt as if Emmeline were trying to get in the thin edge of 
the wedge ; but she did not want to quarrel. 

“Don’t cry, Mara,” she said. “We will go out to lunch.” 
Mara’s tears dried very rapidly as Yerena, turning to Emmeline, 
went on, “Will you tell us of some nice, quiet place where we can 
get our lunch? It will be much the best plan,” she added, cheer- 
fully. 

“James would not like it at all,” said Emmeline, “ and I don’t 
know what places are fit for you. There are plenty where you 
ought not to go, I am quite sure of that.” 

“ Oh, I know,” cried Yerena; “ there is that great place in West- 
bourne Grove, where Kate took us! That is quite proper. We can 
soon get there in a hansom.” 

And as Mara seized her hand, dancing with delight, Yerena ran 
off without waiting to hear any more. 

Emmeline could have cried with vexation. She had asked Bessie on 
purpose to see Yerena. Bessie had doubted about calling on Mrs. 
Grey, as her acquaintance had been exclusively with Emmeline. 
She felt the more diffident, as her social status was somewhat below 
the mark, while her means were of the smallest. 

Yerena, flying through London in her hansom, had no thought of 
Emmeline. She bade the man drive fast, with a happy reckless- 
ness of danger, intending to pay an exorbitant fare. Yerena liked 
hansoms much better than her close little brougham. She was glad 
to have seized the opportunity of giving Mara a treat. These were 
the moments when Yerena really enjoyed the pleasures of a well- 
filled purse. She ordered a dainty little luncheon, strolled through 
the most tempting of Whiteley’s shops, bought a Persian kitten, 
some pictures for the nursery, and a wonderful toy lion for Mara, 


56 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


also a few trifles for Lisette. Then they took a hansom to Kensing- 
ton Gardens, and spent the lovely June afternoon under the trees, 
taking their tea in the kiosk near the Serpentine. They got home 
only just in time for Verena to dress for dinner. She was making 
a hasty toilet, and feeling more light-hearted than she had done 
for years, when her husband came in. 

“Verena, my pet,” he said, rather gravely, “ what is this I hear 
about your going out when Emmeline had a friend to lunch?” 

“Why,” said Verena, offering him a bracelet with a lovely arm to 
clasp it on, “Emmeline told me when I came in that Mara must 
dine in the nursery, because she had asked a friend to lunch. I 
don’t like Mara to dine in the nursery, and I didn’t think that Emme- 
line ought to have settled it without asking me. But I did not want 
to make myself unpleasant, so I said that we would go and lunch at 
Whiteley’s. I thought it a very happy idea. ” 

“But it seems thaJt Emmeline had asked Mrs. King on purpose to 
meet you.” 

“She never told me so ; I did not even hear the name of her 
friend. I certainly went off in a hurry; it was getting so late. But 
I never thought of its being necessary for me to stay at home and 
entertain a friend whom Emmeline had asked without telling me a 
word about it.” 

“She seems very much hurt,” said Mr. Grey, who had been re- 
tained as counsel for the plaintiff. 

But some feminine instinct made Verena coaxing where Mara’s 
interests. were concerned. She leaned lightly against her husband’s 
shoulder and looked at him with eyes which few men could have 
resisted, while her voice was very soft as she said, 

‘ ‘ Don’t blame me. Emmeline would have a friend to lunch every 
day if she thought it would keep Mara up-stairs. And she has 
threatened it as a punishment so often that the poor little thing began 
to cry directly. And we did have such a pleasant day. Don’t spoil 
it all by scolding me. Let Emmeline find fault with me herself if 
she wants to, instead of doing it through you, whom I mind so much 
more.” 

Emmeline’s cause was lost. When her brother came down to din- 
ner with Verena on his arm, he seemed, she thought, a little more 
besotted than usual. 

The relations between the sisters-in-law were more strained after 
this. Emmeline was usually worsted in their encounters. She was 
overmatched by nature as well as circumstances. She had all the will 
to act as a wolf, but her powers were about as formidable as those 
of the lamb. Clear-headed Verena could, as a jockey would say, 
give her antagonist a good many pounds in diplomacy. She could 
soon read Emmeline like a book, and would answer her thoughts as 
well as her words with a directness of insight which struck the oth- 
er dumb. Her little subterfuges offered no refuge from such an an- 
tagonist. 

Verena learned to know when her adversary meant mischief, and 
to guess what version of the story would be carried to James. She 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


57 


would herself tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth. Outside her Bluebeard’s closet, the chambers of her own 
mind were fair and open enough. She was as outspoken in all things 
but one, as she would have been in all, if her father had permitted it. 
Verena never carried tales or complaints of Emmeline to her hus- 
band. She acted wholly on the defensive. In her case, inactivity 
really was masterly. 

Kate received Emmeline’s confidences gladly. It would not at all 
suit her for Emmeline and Verena to be friends. Already, Emme- 
line had shown less eagerness to have her at the house. Emmeline 
found any company better than none, and the quiet Verena made a 
good talking-block. Politeness had kept her passive at first, but she 
began to grow restive under the constant infliction of Emmeline’s 
gossip. Little as Verena cared for parties, the quiet evenings at 
home were more terrible to her. Mr. Grey would shut himself up 
in his library with a pile of briefs, and Emmeline, with a piece of 
art needle- work in her hand, would sit and talk to Verena about the 
nothings which made up her life. It was a species of boredom that 
Mr. Grey had never submitted to, yet he seemed to expect his wife to 
accept it as a matter of course. 

For the first time in her life Verena had possession of a good li- 
brary, but Emmeline would not let her enjoy it. A book in her hand 
was no protection against conversation. Verena never read when 
Mara was with her, and Emmeline thought her own talk better worth 
listening to than Mara’s. But the babble of an opening mind is very 
different from the babble of a mind that is never going to open. And 
then Emmeline was not Mara ! 

Verena would have sometimes felt a quarrel a relief if it had kept 
Emmeline silent afterwards. But she was a woman who could say 
every disagreeable thing that occurred to her, and talk as usual five 
minutes afterwards. To the girl who had lived through a tragic 
story before she was seventeen, who had never learned to look on 
life as anything but a battle-field in which she must suffer and be 
strong, the patter-patter of Emmeline’s small talk was like the falling 
of water, drop by drop, on the head of the tortured culprit. 

One evening Verena found herself alone in the drawing-room, and 
by a happy inspiration she fled to the library. Mr. Grey looked up 
I surprised. 

I “May I sit here and read my book?” asked Verena. “I will be 
very quiet.” 

“I hope you have not been quarrelling,” said Mr. Grey, fearing a 
I man’s bugbear unpleasantness. 

i “Oh no. Emmeline has gone to speak to her dress -maker; but 
I she never reads, and I often want to.” 
i “Sit where I can see you.” 

|l Verena moved softly to the table, but she never raised her eyes 
I from her book. There was nothing to disturb a worker in this quiet 
i student. 

I When she had sat by him two or three evenings, Mr. Grey felt 
I very dull and lonely without her. 


68 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Won’t Emmeline miss her companion?” he asked. 

“Did you want a companion for yourself or for Emmeline when 
you married me?” inquired Verena, demurely. 

“Here is a legal document I want you to read,” said Mr. Grey; 
“you have never even asked me whether I had made a settlement 
on you, but I arranged all that with your father very early in our 
engagement. Perhaps he told you.” 

“No,” said Verena; then, with her usual exactness, she added, 

‘ ‘ at least, he told me no particulars. He always said we should be 
provided for if I married you.” 

The settlement was for a formidable sum — at least, it seemed so 
to Verena. She read it through, considered a moment, and then said, 

“I see that by this settlement you have given me the right to 
make a will and leave the money to any one I like, if we have no 
children. Don’t you want it back again?” 

“No; I am not likely to outlive you, and, if I did, I should not 
want your money, ” 

“ Then may I make a will and leave it to Mara?” 

“ Certainly. I will make a will for you if you like.” 

“Let me try and make it myself. A lawyer’s wife ought to know 
enough law for that. ” 

“ I am afraid you have not imbibed much law from me.” 

“No; but 1 have from your books. I often read them when I am 
waiting for you at your chambers. ” 

Mr. Grey smiled, doubting whether the science of law could be 
mastered in a few odd half-hours. He had probably in his mind a 
maxim touching the wisdom of the testator who is his own lawyer. 
But, if it amused Verena to try and make a will, let her by all 
means do it. 

She did not lose much time. 

“Let me come to your chambers to-morrow,” she said; and next 
day he found her with a sheet of paper and a little heap of law-books 
by her side. “ I have made my will,” she said, handing it to him. 

Mr. Grey took the paper, The will was in a single line — “I 
leave everything that 1 have to Annette Mara Dogan.” 

“Very good will,” said her husband, with a lawyer’s preference 
for untechnical language ; ‘ ‘ but it is usual to describe the relation- 
ship. You should say ‘ my sister, Annette Mara Dogan.’ ” 

“ Would it invalidate the will as it is written?” 

“No.” 

“ Should I not write ‘ half-sister ?’ ” 

“ It is not necessary. You have no other sister.” 

“But if it were necessary, and the relationship had been wrongly 
described, would that invalidate the will ?” 

“ It would be a risk. The court always tries to find out the in- 
tentions of a testator, but it is no good throwing unnecessary dust in 
their eyes. You had better make a fresh copy of this elaborate docu- 
ment ; it is not well to insert alterations. ” Mr. Grey thought no more 
of Verena’s will. That evening she signed it, and got her signature 
witnessed by two of the servants. But she made no alteration. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


59 


CHAPTER YIIL 

It was one of Verena’s wifely customs to meet her husband in the 
hall when he came home to dinner. It not only pleased him, but it 
prevented Emmeline from lying in wait to get the first word. Ve- 
rena would fly down directly her quick ear caught the sound of a 
key in the lock. 

“ I met a cousin of yours to-day,” was his greeting, one evening. 

“ A cousin! but I have not got any.” 

“I suppose it is not impossible that you should have relations. 
I was asked to stand legal godfather to a young fellow to-day, and I 
was struck by his having your very uncommon name of Dogan. 
So I looked him up and found that his father was cousin to your 
father. Cuthbert Dogan, as he is called, carries his relationship in 
his face; he has your poor father’s features, and a look that I re- 
member though you may not. I thought 5^ou would be so pleased.” 

“ So I am. I shall love a young man like my father.” 

“ I don’t absolutely require that — such an uncommonly good-look- 
ing fellow, too! He talked of calling on you, but I think you had 
better write and ask him to dinner. You can ask Kate and Wilson 
and a few other young people to meet him.” 

“Gertie and young Motfatt would be quite enough; we don’t 
want a large party. Does the young man live all alone?” 

“ He is staying at a boarding-house; his parents are in India, and 
I believe he means to practise out there.” 

“Poor fellow, how lonely he must be! I am glad you found him 
out.” 

Women usually credit young men with domestic tastes, and waste 
a good deal of pity on those who are denied a family circle. But 
Cuthbert Dogan happened to be a more home-loving youth than 
most, and he caught rather eagerly at the acquaintance offered by 
Mr. Grey. He did not wait for the invitation to dinner; but having 
received permission to call, he came next day. 

It was a pretty picture which greeted his eyes as he came in. The 
windows were thrown open to their widest extent, and beyond the 
flower-filled balcony the trees in Russell Square showed like a land- 
scape. Two white figures in the foreground were thrown out against 
it. Verena lay back in her light chair wearing a soft-flowing dress 
which was only too trim for a tea-gown. The young man had just 
time to note the grace of her half-recumbent attitude before she sprang 
up and came to greet him as frankly as if she had known him all 
her life. 

“We never had a cousin before; we are so glad to find one,” she 
said, and Mara seconded her welcome by scrambling on his knee. 


60 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


The young man was not fond of children, but he submitted grace- 
fully to Mara’s attentions, while he scanned Yerena as closely as po- 
liteness would permit. The Dogans reckoned themselves a handsome 
family. Cuthbert was himself a favorable specimen of their type of 
beauty, but he thought that Yerena had, as running men say, “beaten 
the record.” Yerena took little heed of the young man’s good looks, 
neither was she particularly impressed by the soft, winning manners 
which seemed in keeping with his handsome face ; but she saw that 
he bore some resemblance to her father, and liked him for it. 

“He is such a nice boy, ” she said to her husband afterwards. 

“ The boy is a year older than you are, my child.” 

‘ ‘ But I am a woman, and a married woman too, which makes me 
older. He seems an affectionate boy.” 

“Indeed! This must be looked into.” 

“I mean he spoke so nicely about his mother. She is coming 
over next year. He told us a lot about India. You will find Mara 
full of snakes and tiger-hunts. And he can come to our dinner. ” 

“Mind you show Wilson that you can say something for yourself 
on occasion.” 

“Oh yes, I will talk like Emmeline,” said Yerena, mischievously. 

“Ho, talk like yourself. I want your talk, not any talk.” 

“Mr. Wilson will take me in. Shall Cuthbert take Gertie?” 

‘ ‘ I think it would be more of a compliment to give him Emme- 
line.” 

Yerena might have been suspected of match-making designs, she 
was so anxious that her favorite Gertie should look well at her little 
dinner. 

“ What are you going to wear?” she asked. 

“An old black satin of mother’s, done up with grenadine, ” re- 
plied Gertie, with some slight discontent in her tone. 

‘ ‘ The family finances won’t run to evening dresses for the young- 
er daughter,” said Kate, “youth and good looks are dress in them- 
selves.” 

“Only you can’t wear them alone,” protested Gertie. 

“You are just my height, ” cried Yerena, triumphantly. “ I believe 
you could wear one of my dresses. I have several that have never 
been put on, and it is quite natural for cousins to wear each other’s 
things. ” 

Lisette’s skilful fingers were pressed into the service, a new white 
dress was slightly altered, and for the first time in her life Gertie 
was set off to advantage. She was a thorough English girl, with 
blue eyes, brown hair, a fresh complexion, and features of that non- 
descript class which neither make nor mar good looks. She was 
quite pretty enough to pass for a beauty under favorable circum- 
stances. 

“ This is something better than youth and good looks,” she cried, 
rushing into her sister’s room, fresh from the hands of Lisette. 

“Rather,” said Kate; “ why, I should be young and good-looking 
myself in a dress like that I Well, it’s all very well to spoil the Egyp- 
tians, but I wish their garments fitted me. ” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


61 


Then, running down to the drawing-room, Kate congratulated 
Verena on having, as she said, dressed Gertie into beauty. 

“What is the use of pretending you don’t care for vanities?” she 
went on. “You always trick out Mara like a peacock, and now 
you have taken to dressing a bigger doll. Oh!” in an undertone, 
“what an adorable young man!” 

It was Cuthbert Dogan, who certainly looked his best in evening 
dress. The three ladies, who now saw him for the first time, were 
far more enthusiastic about him than Verena had been. They all 
complimented him after their kind when they withdrew after din- 
ner. 

“ He was very attentive to me,” said Emmeline; “ but I must not 
encourage him; he is too young, poor boy.” 

“ He is very handsome,” sighed Gertie, who was romantic. 

“He wfill make a lovely tame cat,” cried Kate. “Do cultivate 
him, Verena.” 

“ I mean to; not that I want a tame cat.” 

“ He wants to rub up his dancing, and I have promised to give 
him lessons,” said Kate ; “dancing is my one accomplishment. Can 
you dance, Verena?” 

“My father had me taught; he said that women who couldn’t 
dance were always awkward. But I have only had girl partners, 
and I don’t mean to begin dancing now that 1 am a sober married 
woman.” 

“But you are going to a dance with us.” 

‘ ‘ Rather against my will. ” 

“So you mean to be a wall-fiower! You had better turn your face 
to the wall, if you wish to preserve that character in peace. ” 

“ I shall have James to keep me company; I suppose he doesn’t 
dance.” 

“Ko; I fancy I see James dancing. I tried a waltz with him 
once ; it was rather like riding a bad horse. ” 

“ Couldn’t you have a dance this evening? I can manage to play 
a waltz, and there would be three couples.” 

“Nothing like a waltz after dinner for digestion,” cried Kate. 
“Let me take a turn with you, Verena, before our partners come 
up. You play a waltz, Gertie.” 

Kate danced to perfection. She always said that her clever feet 
and her clever tongue could keep her in partners. Verena danced 
well, too, but she ran away directly they heard a sound on the stair- 
case. 

“What, dancing!” said Mr. Grey, as he came in. “Are you a 
dancer, Verena?” 

“No; lam only going to be a player, and a very poor one, too, I 
fear.” 

Kate and Cuthbert began to dance; Mr. Wilson had the presence 
of mind to secure Gertie, and Emmeline was left to Mr. Moffatt. He 
was the only one who showed any disposition to make a change of 
partners during the evening; Wilson was launched in a flirtation, 
and Kate was bent on making her partner perfect, 


62 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Verena sat patiently playing the “See saw Waltz/’ with her hus- 
band beside her. 

“Wouldn’t you like to dance?” he asked. 

“Oh no,” with a smile ; “but I wish that 1 could play better. 
Emmeline is always reviling me for having no accomplishments, and 
I am afraid it is rather a weak point in my education ; but we could 
not always alford a piano, and latterly my father could not bear the 
noise of practising. Will you let me have some really good music- 
lessons, and then I will do you more credit?” 

“Take any lessons you like, only I should advise you to leave 
them till later in the year. We have so many engagements just 
now; and we shall be going away somewhere. Ours was a very 
short wedding- trip, Verena. Would you like to go abroad again?” 

“Oh no; I would much rather go to some English watering- 
place, and settle down. If you had lived abroad as much as I have, 
you wouldn’t want to leave England.” 

“Emmeline always goes to Folkestone.” 

“I would as soon go to Folkestone as anywhere. But of course” 
— with a sudden homage to conjugal duty— “I will go where you 
like.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

There were a good many little dances in Verena’s drawing-room 
that summer. She learned to play other waltzes besides the ‘ ‘ See- 
saw;” and Cuthbert became a good-enough dancer to satisfy Kate 
herself. Sometimes they danced in the afternoon, and Gertie would 
play while Verena took Mara for a partner. The Payn girls almost 
lived at Russell Square in these days, and Cuthbert, or Bertie, as 
they called him, was made one of the family. They carried him 
about with them. People were glad of a young man to leaven such 
a heap of women, Kate said. Verena would not have Gertie left 
out of their amusements, and Kate made no objections, now that 
Gertie had, as she said, “a gown to her back.” “Perhaps Gertie 
might get married,” she said. “And, if Verena could manage to 
substitute Leah for Rachel, it would be a good move.” 

Mr. Grey thought that Verena had made his home very gay, though 
she still remained as sedate as if she had been his own age. Yet she 
was forcing herself to seem, at least, like other people. She wen^ 
to as many parties as her husband wished, and laid aside her black 
dresses to please him. But she could not put away the past. And, 
in case she was in any danger of forgetting it, there came a reminder. 
One da}^ as they were talking over last night’s dance, Kate sudden- 
ly asked, 

“Were you ever at Ghent, Verena?” 

Verena turned white to the lips, and instinctively moved away, as 
she answered, 

“I have been to pretty well all those old towns some time or oth- 
er; but Ghent was not one of our resting-places.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


63 


‘‘There were two girls last night who asked me about you/’ said 
Kate. “I need not repeat their compliments, as James is not here. 
But they said they had seen a picture just like you, a Madonna, 
which used to hang in their bedroom at Ghent. It was badly paint- 
ed, they said, but such a lovely face, and you might have sat for it.” 

“I never had my portrait taken in my life,” said Verena, feeling 
rather relieved. 

“Well, they were so full of it that I asked the address, in case I 
was ever there: Madame Braun, 14Quai des Moines.” 

Verena was leaning against the window. She almost clung to it 
now. She knew nothing of the picture; but if any one should go 
and ask about her at that house in the Quai des Moines? 

“How on earth could 1 get there?” thought Kate. “There is 
something to be found out at last.” 

But Kate did not want to hurt Verena at this moment; she found 
her much too useful. His marriage had waked up James consider- 
ably, Kate thought. He was quite ready to take office if he got a 
chance. And people cultivated him more now that he had a young 
wife that might be the beauty of the season. Lady Copeland was 
anxious to present Verena next year, and James would be in Parlia- 
ment. Some crumbs of gayety must fall to her own share, and Ve- 
rena was always good-natured enough to throw what she could in 
her way. 

“As for Gertie, I think we shall soon get her off our hands,” said 
Kate, confidently ; ‘ ‘ she has really made an impression on Mr. 
Wilson.” 

“But she doesn’t seem to care for him,” objected Verena. 

“ She must be made to care,” returned Kate, with determination. 
Then, seeing Verena’s indignant face, she added, audaciously, “For- 
give me, I always forget that you had a romantic passion for 
James.” 

But Kate’s schemes and Gertie’s dissipations were brought to a 
sudden end by the illness of Mrs. Payn, who had to summon her 
younger daughter home to nurse her. The doctor prescribed change ' 
of air, and Gertie carried her mother off to Folkestone. 

‘ ‘ And I think, ” remarked Mr. Grey, ‘ ‘ that it would be a good 
plan to send Mara there too with Lisette. You say that London is 
getting too hot for her, Verena, and I have thought her looking pale 
myself. We may not be able to get away for another month, but 
you will feel quite easy about Mara if she has my aunt and Gertie 
to look after her.” 

Verena’s heart sank. She could not bear Mara out of her sight, 
and she did not quite believe that she could be safe with any one but 
herself. But the child wanted change, and her own place was, of 
course, with her husband. It was some comfort that Mr. Grey pro- 
posed taking Mara down to Folkestone, and seeing her installed with 
Lisette in a little house in the Sandgate Road, where they were to 
stay till the rest of the family came down, and they could move into 
their favorite house on the Lees. 

Verena had the pleasure of seeing Mara’s first raptures over the 


64 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


new place, but they could only stay one night, and when Sunday | 
evening came it was very dreadful to leave Mara behind. YerenaJ 
did not feel quite so desolate as she had felt when she had left theS 
child to go for her honey-moon. Her husband now was something ' 
very different from what he had been to her then. But the long 
days in London tvere very dreary. There was no charm in Ken- 
sington Gardens now ; the Botanic Gardens and the Zoo seemed like 
a wilderness. 

Verena began to find that London was indeed very hot and close 
in summer; and she thought that Emmeline had never been so tire- 
some. Kate was staying with them, or she felt as if she could scarce- 
ly have borne with her sister-in-law. Her early sufferings had left 
Verena the curse of irritable nerves ; and all the sunshine of her 
life had been withdrawn with Mara. Verena realized now what 
her life would have been if she had not married Mr. Grey. She 
would have gone out as a governess, and only seen Mara on an oc- 
casional holiday. And now! She had revelled all the summer in 
the company which she loved best. There had been no Annette to 
divide the love she prized, no father to reprove her for giving way 
too blindly to Mara worship. 

Verena’s heart turned gratefully towards her husband. She put 
on a bright face and manner for him morning and evening, but she 
pined throughout the day, while Kate watched and wondered. 

One morning, when Verena was in her bedroom, Kate went into 
the dressing-room to get a book. Mr. Grey had told her of an as- 
sortment of yellow-backed novels in his room. But perhaps Verena 
had not supposed that Kate would follow her there. As Kate peered 
through the door, she could see Verena looking at a large photograph 
in a case. Presently she kissed it, and Kate thought that she was 
crying. It took iV^te a long time to choose her yellow-backed nov- 
el. Her search lasted till Verena had gone down stairs. Then she 
stole into the bedroom, pulled open a drawer, and took out the case 
which Verena had hidden there. 

♦ “ Who is he?” she asked, as she opened it. 

It was Mara. 

Perhaps Verena had been fretting more than usual that day; for 
her husband, coming in unexpectedly, exclaimed at her looks, 

“My darling, you are not well,” he said. “I must send you 
away.” He took her hand. It was hot and dry. He felt her 
pulse. It was fast, but thin and tremulous. “I shall take you to 
Folkestone on Saturday,” was his conclusion. 

Verena’s cure was almost effected on the spot. It was completed 
when she found herself joyously greeted by a very sunburnt and 
noisy Mara. 

“Why, you look better already, ” remarked her husband, after 
they had been twenty-four hours in the place. 

Verena felt heartily ashamed of herself. Other people did not 
pine and fall ill when they were separated from those they loved. 
Neither did they distract themselves with pictures of the accidents 
^nd sicknesses which might befall their dear ones in their absence, 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


65 


Other people loved reasonably; took life as it came, and never met 
misfortune half-way. But nature and circumstance had alike made 
this unhappy one different. Verena was remorsefully tender to her 
husband. She bade him run down whenever he could, and hasten 
his holiday if possible. But she felt relieved to find that he had no 
intention of recalling her home, however long his own holiday might 
be delayed. And somehow she did not fear that his train would 
suffer collision as he travelled back to London. 

Perhaps the fortnight spent with Mara and the Payns alone at 
Folkestone was the happiest part of Verena's holiday. It was so 
nice to think of nothing but amusing Mara, and Gertie was herself 
so like a child at the sea-side, that she fell in with all their notions 
of pleasure. The simple life in the simple lodgings suited Verena 
exactly. She was sorry when Emmeline and Kate came to the 
house on the Lees and she had to join them. She told herself that 
she would not have regretted it if her husband had been able to 
come too ; but Mr. Grey’s holiday was still delayed, and any odd 
days which he might snatch from the courts would have, he said, 
to be spent in educating the electors of a certain borough. 

Verena and Gertie still devoted the mornings to Mara’s amuse- 
ment. They took her to bathe with them, Verena keeping in shal- 
low water for her sake. Gertie could swim a little, and would try 
to tempt her companion into deeper water; but Verena had prom- 
ised her husband not to attempt swimming unless she took lessons. 

“I ought to learn,” she would say, looking at the swimming bath; 
but somehow she never did. It was so much pleasanter to dabble 
about in the open sea with Mara. They had long happy mornings 
on the beach, with a little tent to make a pretence of keeping off the 
sun, though Mara kept straying from the shelter, and Verena al- 
ways followed her. But Verena was not allowed to spend all her 
time on the beach “making a baby of herself,” as Kate said. Sbe 
was required to join Emmeline’s excursions, and to play propriety, 
since Bertie, who was staying nominally at the Pavilion, always 
made one. For a few mornings Kate captured the young man and 
made him play lawn-tennis in the enclosure at the back of their 
house. On the fourth morning he was missing. 

“ Where can he be?” asked Emmeline. 

“ On the beach,” said Kate, “ digging like a navvjr under the im- 
perious rule of Mara. Poor young man, I thought it looked badly 
when he proposed that the child should go to our picnic.” 

“ He doesn’t care for Mara,” said Emmeline, looking puzzled. 

“Perhaps it’s Lisette,” replied Kate; “anyhow, he will turn up 
with the nursery train. I wish we had some more men. Bertie is 
very nice; but he isn’t much among four. Is Mr. Wilson coming 
soon?” 

“As soon as he can get away. He took such a fancy tot Folke- 
stone in the spring. ” 

“He took a fancy to something else in the summer. Do you 
think we might pick up a few promiscuous young men, Emmeline, 
and introduce them to Verena as old friends?” 

5 


66 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“ No; and I wish you would think of something to amuse us in- 
stead of talking nonsense.” 

“Let us go and order the horses for to-morrow morning. Bertie 
has promised to ride with us as often as we like, so he can’t get out 
of it. And James will not let Yerena mount a horse.” 

“ I don’t see what difference that makes.” 

“Well, we shall not look so like the seven women who were to lay 
hold of one man, as we usually do. I have got an idea for this after- 
noon, too. Let us all go and be photographed at W eston’s in a group.” 

“I photograph so well, I never mind being taken,” observed Em- 
meline; “but you won’t get Yerena to stand.” 

• “ On yes, I will. Only we must have Mara as well, though chil- 

dren are an awful bore in a group. Let us go and settle about it at 
once.” 

Returning from the town they met the nursery train, as Kate called 
it. Gertie’s eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy, like Mara’s. She 
looked very pretty with her curly hair hanging loosely round her, 
the sunlight throwing out its chestnut tints. Yerena looked pleased 
and almost happy. She saw the making of a pretty romance, while 
Kate sought materials for an ugly one. 

“You deserted us,” said Emmeline to Bertie, reproachfully. 

“ I’m so sorry,” replied he, “ but I strained my arm yesterday, and 
I didn’t feel quite up to tennis. ” 

“What a pity,” remarked Kate, “you could not make earthworks 
for Mara.” 

Bertie looked guilty. He still held the spade which he had been 
using vigorously. But Gertie at least forgave the falsehood. 

“We have been planning amusements to keep up your spirits, 
Yerena,” said Kate; “we don’t like to see you fretting so after 
James. And we have got a surprise for him. We are all going to 
be photographed in a group. ” 

“But I don’t want to be photographed,” cried Yerena. 

“But you must,” insisted Kate; “no one ever goes to the sea-side 
without. We have settled it all. You are to be pouring out tea, 
Bertie handing cups, Mara in the foreground giving a saucer of 
milk to the cat.” 

“Is it a real live cat?” cried Mara, suddenly becoming interested. 

“A real live cat,” repeated Kate. “And think how pleased 
James will be, Yerena; my mother too. She loves you next to her 
own daughters — next to Gertie, I suspect.” 

“Yes, mother will be delighted,” said Gertie; “do you really 
mind, Yerena?” 

“ I have a prejudice against being photographed,” said Yerena. 

“ She has a perfect craze on the subject — I told you so,” cried Em- 
meline, triumphantly. 

“Bqt what is it, Yerena?” asked Kate, “are you 'wanted,’ as the 
police say, and afraid of being identified, or has any fortune-teller 
predicted that you will come to grief directly your portrait is taken? 

“ ‘ Woe worth the hour, woe worth the day, 

When painter limne Yerena GreyJ ” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


67 


“Do let me have my picture taken with the cat,” said Mara, put- 
ting in her little oar, 

“You will be about three inches long, and perhaps not distin- 
guishable from me,” pleaded Kate; “don’t glare at me so, Bertie, I 
am not really so vain as I seem. ” 

“ I should like to have a picture of you to send my mother,” said 
the young man, with a look which was certainly not meant to be 
impertinent, though Kate interpreted it in her own manner. 

Verena did not heed Bertie. But she was beginning to think that 
perhaps a tiny figure in a group would scarcely be a likeness, and 
could not much matter, and so she gave way. 

It is never very easy to arrange a group to every one’s liking. 
Verena soon abandoned her tea-tray to Emmeline, who wanted to 
be the central figure. 

“You can make tea and I will take care that the cat doesn’t scratch 
Mara,” she said, placing herself in the foreground. 

“It looks a formidable beast,” remarked Kate; “hadn’t you bet- 
ter let Bertie help you to hold it down. I see he is making for the 
front, too.” 

“Oh no, you must keep at the back,” cried Verena. “You must 
be taking a cup from Emmeline or else handing it to Gertie. ” 

‘ ‘ Could you make an eye at the same time ?” asked Kate. ‘ ‘ I think 
it might add a slight fiavor to the picture. ” 

“I wish you would all keep quiet,” said Emmeline, who had put 
on her most becoming expression some five minutes before. “You 
are all ever so much worse than Mara.” 

“Take off your hat, Verena,” cried Gertie; “your face will be 
quite black.” 

‘ ‘ It will become permanently black if I sit in the sun with my 
hat off. You happen to be in the shade.” 

“Jf you would draw back a little, you would not feel the sun,” 
said the photographer, “and I could get a better likeness without 
the hat. ” 

Verena was obliged to remove her screen, and the little profile of 
the figure in the foreground came out like a cameo. 

“Now we shall just have time to catch the train to Dover,” said 
Emmeline, who had laid out the whole afternoon. 

“Wouldn’t it be better if I took Aunt Kate for a drive?” asked 
Verena. 

“No,” replied Kate, “she will be quite happy with Mara. Gerr 
tie and Bertie are dying to see Dover, and they won’t go without 
you. And Emmeline and I want to rnake a call while you young 
people disport yourselves. ” 

‘ ‘ But we must have some tea,” said Emmeline. ‘ ‘ I want my tea.” 

“You always do,” said Kate, “and that Barmecide tea has made 
nje feel more thirsty than usual. We can get it at the Lord War- 
den.” 

Verena proposed that they should take it at the railway station, 
but there was an outcry against station tea from all except Bertie, 
who perhaps did not intend to drink it, They finally decided on 


68 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE GODS. 


going to a pastrycook’s, where Gertie and Bertie ate cakes in a way < 
that moved Kate’s envy. 

“Emmeline and I are past such joys,” she remarked, “and Vere- 
na has a soul above cakes.” 

“I could eat cakes if I liked,” said Emmeline, “but I have just 
had my lunch.” 

“Ah, that’s just it, ’’replied Kate, “the appetite does not renew 
itself in the same buoyant manner after — let us say sixteen.” 

“But we are a good deal past sixteen,” cried Gertie. 

“Don’t sarce me in the vicious pride of your youth, ’’replied her 
sister.” 

“Are we going to make our call to-day?” asked Emmeline, as 
Kate lingered. 

“Yes, let us get it over; I hope they will be out, but bores never 
are. Don’t take root, Emmeline, whatever you do.” 

Emmeline must have obeyed Kate’s injunction, for in less than 
half an hour they joined the others who were sitting on the beach. 

“We have scoured the place,” said Bertie, perhaps as a hint that 
they did not wish to move. 

“Then you have been very quick about it. What shall we do 
now?” asked Emmeline. 

*‘Our train doesn’t go for an hour. If we had a book, Bertie 
could read us something.” 

“I have a little volume of Browning,” said Gertie, very inconsid- 
erately, for Bertie did not at all desire to read. 

“ One ought to know something of Browning, I believe,” remarked 
Kate; “ but for my part I always sympathized with the man in the 
‘ Golden Butterfly, ’ Pick out pieces suited to our weak female in- 
tellects, Bertie. Verena will furnish the key if wanted. ” 

Bertie was not a literary man. He had never read a line of 
Browning, and might not have understood it if he had. He ran his 
eye over one or two pieces which looked unpromising, and then 
lighted on “Evelyn Hope.” 

“ I don’t approve of that poem,” said Kate, when he had flnished. 
“Here is an old fogey whom Evelyn Hope would probably not 
have looked at when she was alive, and he binds her over to a sort 
of engagement after she is dead. I call that taking a mean advan- 
tage.” 

“ It was not her time to love,” quoted Verena. 

“And if it had been,” replied Kate, “she would have preferred 
somebody whose time had not gone by. It’s rather like Madame 
de Maintenon and Louis XIV., only turned the other way. Don’t 
you remember? ‘A flne rendezvous he has given me.’ Well, I 
never had a lover in this world, and I hope I shall not And some old 
gentleman awaiting me in the next. I don’t mean the old gentleman 
par excellence. ” 

“Verena,” said Gertie, suddenly introducing a new subject, after 
her fashion, “ I wish we could go to the Wishing- well.” 

“A wishing- well!” cried Kate; “let us go by all means. Is this 
great discovery the result of your guide-book studies, Gertie?” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


69 


*‘^0; I heard of it from some people on the beach.” 

“People on the beach!” exclaimed Kate; “does Verena let you 
pick up acquaintances in that way? And Emmeline would not let 
me enlarge my circle on the Lees, though I promised to choose only 
men from the camp. But this is a find, anyhow. Here have I been 
wishing all my life and never a wish gratified yet. You won’t get 
me away from that well in a hurry.” 

“But you must only have one wish,” explained Gertie, “when 
you first drink the water.” 

“'Don’t wish for too much at the Wishing-gate,’ ” sang Kate. 
“It might be advisable to take a pocket-filter with us. Or is it 
necessary that we should drink the water in all its native impurity?” 

“You sha’n’t filter any for me,” said Gertie. 

“ Then perhaps Yerena, who has everything that the heart of wom- 
an can desire, will wish that you may escape typhoid.” 

“ It’s all nonsense,” Said Emmeline. 

And she remained so cool on the subject of the wishing- well that 
the others made their arrangements to go without her. But at the 
last moment she stepped into their little carriage. 

“Bertie can sit on the box,” she remarked. 

Verena and Kate placed themselves on the front seat. 

“You are never going to sit on that side,” cried Bertie. 

“Yerena does it as a mortification of the flesh,” observed Kate. 

^ “I have cultivated the habit of sitting back to horses as a grace 
suited to a lowly rank of life.” 

“Don’t say any more about it,” whispered Yerena, “Gertie is 
worse than I am.” 

“And Emmeline likes to be comfortable,” whispered Kate, “ and 
we had not reckoned on the pleasure of her company.” Then aloud 
she added: “You and Gertie must change about, Yerena, or per- 
haps, when we get out of the town, we can take Bertie inside and 

-bow her pride 

A foot-boy on the box to ride.’ ” 


Gertie was looking out for them, and jumped in; then jumped 
up again to change places with Yerena. But Yerena would not 
change. 

“ I shall be all right,” she said. “ I mean to walk up the hills.” 

“ Then you may as well walk all the way,” remarked Emmeline. 

There was certainly a good deal of walking. Bertie was mostly 
on foot, and he often stopped the carriage for Yerena to get out. It 
was Gertie’s expedition, but she did not enjoy it. Emmeline did 
not make it pleasant for her in the carriage. She regarded a dislike 
to sitting back to horses as an affectation, since it made no difference 
to herself. Gertie would have liked to walk with Yerena and Ber- 
tie, but she thought they did not seem to want her. 

“What can they be talking about?” said Emmeline. 

“I never saw Yerena so eloquent,” remarked Kate; “she must 
be pleading the cause of some unlucky girl who has fallen a victim 
to Bertie’s charms. Don’t blush, Gertie, I am never personal.” 


10 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Verena was lecturing Bertie on the duty of working for his exam- 
ination. He was not a studious young man, and he was supposed 
to be reading at Folkestone. 

“Think how disappointed your mother will be if you fail,” Ve- 
rena was saying. 

“It won’t make much difference,” he replied. “ I shall never do 
any good at the Bar. I was always an unlucky beggar. I never 
won anything at school, not even at the sports ; and if I back a horse 
it is sure to lose.” 

“You are not wanted to back horses,” said Verena, severely, 
“and you lose the other things because you don’t really try. You 
are not in the least stupid, Bertie.’’ 

“Thank you,” said the young man, meekly, taking off his hat. 

“But you talk as if you were — pretending you can’t pass this 
easy examination,” continued Verena, who knew nothing about the 
examination except that a good many men passed it. 

“ Well, I will try and pass it, to please you.” 

** You are like my dear father in the face,” said Verena, not heed- 
ing his remark. “I want you to be like him in other things.” 

“Well, if I don’t do better at the Bar than that!” thought Bertie. 

Verena went on — 

“You cannot think how much he knew, and he was always read- 
ing and learning something to the last.” 

“He didn’t turn it to much account,” thought Bertie, who was 
scarcely moved to great exertions by this brilliant example. (Frank 
Dogan had not been thought much of by his more distant relatives.) 

“Verena,” cried Emmeline, “are you going to the Wishing-well 
to-day? You must get up too, Bertie, and tell the driver to go fast.” 

“You have been lecturing that poor young man,” said Kate; “ I 
am sure of it from your determined look and his generally flattened 
appearance. Is it for neglecting study or for trifling with female 
affections? My case is only a little less hopeless than Gertie’s, and 
I begin to fear for Emmeline. Her temper is less sweet than usual 
to-day.” 

“ I think Verena has found a Sintram,” said Emmeline. 

“ Do you know who Verena was?” asked her namesake. 

“ Of course I do. She was Sintram’s love and guardian angel.” 

“ She was his mother,” put in Gertie. 

“I think you have only read about Verena and Sintram in the 
‘ Heir of Redclyffe,’ ” remarked Verena. 

Emmeline maintained a sulky silence till they reached the end of 
their journey. She had no faith in the magic well, yet it relieved 
her vague sense of injury to wish that Verena might be, to use her 
own expression, “served out.” A cruel wish! But cruel wishes 
are sometimes granted. 

Gertie was all eagerness to drink the water. 

“We must not tell our wishes,” she said. 

“We can all guess yours, though,” said Kate: “I mean to wish 
for the impossible.” 

And she wished for a rich husband. But it was not impossible. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 

Verena’s eyes grew soft as she drank the water, and her wish was 
a prayer. It was “ A happy life for Mara.” 

That wish, too, was granted, though not in the way she meant. 

Bertie did not believe in the spell a bit, but wished that he might 
pass his examination. And that evening he read for a whole hour 
instead of playing billiards. 


CHAPTER X. 

“I THINK this must be our picture,” said Verena, opening what 
looked like a very large letter. “Oh, the little darling t” 

Mara and the cat were perfect. 

“ It does not do justice to me,” observed Emmeline, looking over 
her shoulder. “ They have spoiled the shape of my face.” 

“Years have — too many of them,” whispered Kate to Verena. 

Emmeline was not sharp in the ears. She went on, 

“But there is the right look in the eyes— a sort of far-away look.” 

“ Very far-away, I should say,” cried Kate. “You are evidently 
pouring the tea over the table. It’s a good group on the whole. 
Two of us are singularly handsome, and singularly handsome we 
appear. One of us— well, I scarcely knew how ugly one of us was 
till I saw her here.” 

“Oh, Kate! you are flattered,” cried Emmeline. “Why, you 
look—” 

“Like your daughter,” said Kate, cutting in. “Yes, I observed 
that, but not so good-looking as your other children.” 

“You look much more like the mother of the lot yourself,” re- 
torted Emmeline, getting rather red. 

“No,” replied Kate, with an air of resignation. “I positively 
cry out old maid. I have felt my fate flxed since I looked at it. 
Gertie looks better with a complexion. Still she is not amiss. If 
she were here, she would cry out, ‘Oh, how handsome! how very 
like!’ Can you guess which she would mean? Let Bertie speak, 
for himself,” she added, as the young man came in. 

Bertie just glanced at the group. 

“ Very good, ” he remarked; “ but I wish it was a full face.” 

“Allow me to remark that there is only one profile in the group,” 
said Kate. “Verena, can you tell what Mara will say when she 
sees our picture? I have no key to the heart of a child.” 

“ Mara calls it the pussy’s picture; and she will want the pussy 
more than ever. Do you think there would be any chance of their 
selling her, Bertie?” 

“I can try, at all events,” said the young man. 

“ I think, somehow, Mara will get that cat,” remarked Kate. 

But Bertie only brought back a miniature likeness of the cat. 

“ It is her kitten,” he explained; “but I thought Mara would like 
it as well, or better.” 


12 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“What I like about Bertie,” observed Kate, “is his love of chil- 
dren. It is such an amiable trait in a young man.” 

“But I don’t care for children,” replied Bertie, unadvisedly; 
“only,” he added, “Mara is not a bit like other children, and then 
she is my cousin.” 

“ Yes, ’’said Kate; “I have remarked that your family affections 
are very strong.” 

Verena had run away to call Mara, intending that Bertie should be 
allowed to present the kitten himself by way of reward. She came 
back with an open telegram in her hand. 

“ Good news!” she cried. “ James is coming down to-day.” 

“I am extremely glad to hear it,” said Emmeline, significantly. 

“He is coming by the 4.30. Let us all go and meet him. You 
must come too, Bertie.” 

' A slight gloom had fallen over the young man. He did not seem 
to enioy Mara’s raptures over her kitten half so much as Verena ex- 
pected. 

“ Shall I go and fetch Gertie?” he asked. 

“Do, ’’cried Verena, delighted, “and tell her about James.” 

Bertie expected Gertie to feel with him. They had been so jolly 
with Verena, and now Mr. Grey would break up their party. 

“But Verena will be pleased,” said Gertie. 

“ She seemed to get on very well without him. I think young 
people always enjoy themselves better without old ones. And Mr. 
Grey won’t care to dig on the beach or to scramble about with Mara.” 

Bertie spoke as if he had found his chief delight in amusing the 
child. But perhaps he thought to enlist his hearer’s sympathy. 

As Gertie made no answer, he went on, 

‘ ‘ And I dare say Mr. Grey won’t care to turn out after dinner, so 
we shall lose our evening walks on the Lees.” 

“ Oh, that would be dreadful!” cried Gertie, to whom as to Ber- 
tie the evening walks had been the best of all. She was going to 
say, “We need not stay in,” but stopped herself. 

Bertie seemed to have read her thoughts. 

“ It will be no fun if we have Emmeline tacked on to us,” he said; 

she is always down on a fellow. And you and she don’t seem to 
hit it, ” he added. 

“ Emmeline dislikes Verena the most,” said Gertie, who was not 
famous for discretion. “She is always trying to make mischief 
with James.” 

Bertie gave her a quick glance, but her eyes met his frankly. 
She had not been hinting a sermon. 

“When is Wilson coming?” asked Bertie, with perhaps some 
vague hope of getting a companion for Emmeline. 

“I don’t know,” said Gertie; and in spite of herself she blushed 
scarlet. 

“I don’t think I shall stay much longer at Folkestone,” said 
Bertie. 

“ I’m so sorry j it won’t be nearly so nice without you,” said Ger- 
tie, simply. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


^3 


Verena smiled and thought that her little scheme was prospering 
as she met the two young people. They seemed very young to her, 
though they happened to be a year older than she was herself. She 
still thought Bertie only a nice boy, and almost wondered how Ger- 
tie could be so well satisfied with him. She felt herself wondering 
how it could feel to be young and fresh as Gertie was, entering on 
life with a young lover beside her. But Verena did not give a sigh 
as at the loss of a possible paradise. Gertie’s blank past was the 
only thing she desired. It would take very little to make her happy 
now; she had been almost happy during the last few weeks. Yet 
she had felt one miss in her daily life. And that miss would be felt 
no longer. Her husband was coming! Were youth and life and 
even love beginning to re-awaken for Verena? Sometimes she felt 
almost as if they were. 

Mr. Grey seemed to feel the change when she met him on the plat- 
form. 

“How well and bright you look!” was his greeting. 

He felt this was something different from the old holidays when 
he had no enjoyment save a sense of repose, and no face dearer than 
Emmeline’s to greet him. 

‘ ‘ I have had a hard struggle to get down, ” he told V erena. * ‘ Can 
you guess why I was so bent on coming to-day?” 

“Is it the very day we met?” asked Verena, after a moment’s 
pause. 

“Yes, it is a year to-day since I first saw you. A happy day for 
me, Verena.” 

This was not to be a happy day if Emmeline could prevent it. 
She had been trying to catch her brother alone, and at last secured 
him for a few moments after dinner. 

“It’s high time you came down,” she began; then, remembering 
that Verena had only gone to put on her hat, she went on hastily, 
“Bertie is head over ears in love with Verena, and she encourages 
him in the most shameful manner.” 

“I am ashamed of you, Emmeline,” said her brother, sternly; 
“you were always silly; I am afraid you are growing mischievous 
as well. You can do Verena no harm with me, but I will not have 
such things said of her.” 

“Every one notices it,” persisted Emmeline, “even strangers. I 
heard a lady say yesterday, ‘ What a charming pair of young lovers.’ ” 

And Emmeline, having made a point for once, was wise enough 
to escape. 

Mr. Grey had no misgivings about Verena or even about Bertie, 
but the vision of his wife with what strangers considered a suitable 
lover by her side was distasteful to him. There was something 
worse in store for him. Kate, too, was on the watch. All things 
come to her who waits. 

As they went out Mr. Grey met his clerk, who had followed him 
down with letters. 

‘ ‘ I must attend to these, ” he said ; “go out and I will follow. Y ou 
go too, Verena,” he added, as she lingered. 


A DAUGHTER OE THE GODS. 


H 

Kate returned presently with some excuse of fetching a shawl. 
She had timed her arrival so that her cousin should come out with 
her, and she took care to lead him in the opposite direction from the 
rest of the party. Having thus secured an uninterrupted tete-d-tete, 
she began in a very different fashion from Emmeline. 

“When is Mr. Wilson coming down?” 

“To-morrow, 1 believe. You needn’t think him a laggard, Kate. 
It is not his own fault that he has not come sooner. ” 

“I am more anxious about Gertie than about him. Her head is 
full of Bertie.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Grey, well pleased, “Bertie is not making mon- 
ey, like Wilson, but he is an only son, and his parents are well off. 
The young, people might have to wait a little, but that would not 
hurt them.” 

“But I am afraid that Bertie does not care for Gertie, whatever 
she may think.” 

“ Do you mean that he has been trifling with her?” 

“Not intentionally; but she thinks that he wants her, while oth- 
ers can see that she is not the rose.” 

“ Then may I ask who is?” 

“ Don’t be angry with poor Bertie, who can’t help himself, and 
perhaps scarcely knows his own folly. And ask yourself, could 
any young man be thrown so constantly with Verena as he is. and 
yet keep eyes for another woman?” * 

“ I expect a young man to keep his eyes off a married woman, at 
any itite, ” said Mr. Grey. 

“ Don’t, pray, put it into Verena’s head,” said Kate. “ She has no 
idea. She would not be half so kind to the boy, if she guessed. ” 

“You need not tell me that.” 

“No, of course not. Verena treats him almost like a brother, 
and forgets that he has no one to whom he is devoted heart and 
soul, as she is to you.” 

“He must know that Verena is no more in love with himself than 
I am,” was Kate’s inward comment. 

She had no particular object to serve by making James uncom- 
fortable, but she liked him to feel that youth and beauty were not 
unqualified advantages in a wife. 

“ Forgive my saying this,” she added. “ I know there is no fear 
of your misunderstanding me. But is it not provoking about Ger- 
tie ? She may lose her one chance for the sake of a man who 
scarcely looks at her.” 

“You mean no harm, Kate. But this is not a thing to be talked 
about. It ought not to be so much as hinted at. Your own sense 
must show you that. It is not the offender who would suffer. And 
if there ever was a woman who did not deserve to be talked about — ” 

“It is Verena, certainly,” said Kate, cheerfully finishing his sen- 
tence. 

They had walked fast, and were approaching Sandgate, when a 
gate brought them to a standstill. Then they both laughed, and 
turned round. 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE GODS. 


75 


** They will think we have run away,” said Mr. Grey. 

They hurried back to join the crowd of people on the Lees. The 
air was full of merry voices and the music of Mara’s favorite “ See- 
saw ” waltz, which the band was playing; Somehow that tune* 
brought a vague sense of uneasiness to Mr. Grey’s miud ever after. 
Presently they heard Gertie’s high, clear tones, and then Mr. Grey 
caught the sound of a softer voice and laugh. He thought they 
had seldom sounded so gay with him. These were the companions 
really suited to Yerena, he told himself, as she broke from them and 
ran to him. 

“Where have you been all this time?” she cried. “We went in 
twice to look for you. Kate, it is too bad of you to run away with 
my husband the very first evening.” Then, taking his arm, she 
turned again towards Sandgate. ‘ ‘ Let us have a quiet walk away 
from all the people,” she said. 

They walked a little way in silence, then Mr. Grey began, 

“You have been getting on very well in my absence?” 

“ Oh yes, we have had such lovely weather. And it has been very 
nice having Bertie ; he is so good-natured, and a young man is al- 
ways useful.” 

“This one is also ornamental,” remarked Mr. Grey. 

“Oh yes, but I wish he wasn’t so idle. I have been trying to 
make him read, but I wish you would speak to him; he might mind 
you more.” 

Mr. Grey had his doubts. Yerena went on: 

“ I know so little of young men and their ways, but perhaps you 
can tell me. Do they usually go to church?” 

“ Some do and some don’t,” said Mr. Grey, laughing; “they are 
probably, on the whole, less regular in their attendance than girls. 
Why do you want to know?” 

“Because I found that Bertie very seldom went to church; he 
seemed to think Sunday morning a time for lying in bed, and said 
most fellows did. But I have made him go to church with me every 
morning since he came here, and sometimes in the evening as well.” 

Yerena spoke triumphantly, while Mr. Grey secretly doubted the 
expediency of her attempting the conversion of young men. Her 
next question was put rather timidly. 

“Do you think match- making wrong?” 

“A most dangerous and silly practice, certainly,” replied Mr. 
Grey. 

‘ ‘ But if two people seem to like each other, there is no harm in 
trying to bring them together, is there?” 

‘ ‘ I think it is better to leave them to manage matters themselves.. 
Who are you trying to bring together?” 

“ Why, Gertie and Bertie, of course. They are so exactly suited 
to each other — both young, both good-looking, both nice! And she 
has just the earnestness that he lacks, while he has the one quality 
Gertie needs to make her perfect.” 

“I suppose you mean that Bertie does not blurt out everything 
like a child, or ride rough-shod over people’s prejudices. And I 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


dare say you think Gertie will complete the work of conversion 
which you have begun. ” 

“Yes, that especially. If Bertie were to marry a worldly woman, 
he would be done for.” 

“Still, my advice is not to interfere. The less we try to play 
the part of Providence the better, I think. I don’t mean that we 
shouldn’t help our fellow-creatures ; but to arrange their marriages 
or to order their lives for them is going a little beyond our prov- 
ince.” 

“ I did so want to bring things to a point before Mr. Wilson came. 
Kate is set on marrying Gertie to him.” 

“ Yerena, did you ever read Miss Austen’s ‘ Emma?’ ” 

“Yes, half a dozen times.” 

“ Then you remember Emma and Mr. Elton?” 

“ Of course I do. He falls in love with Emma while she is try- 
ing to marry him to Harriet. But there is no danger of that with 
me. I am a married woman.” 

‘ ‘ Married woman or not, you had better leave young men to man- 
age their own affairs, especially when they are not quite so young 
as yourself. ” 

Yerena followed her husband’s advice, and the lovers, as she -con- 
sidered them, had to do without her help when they seemed to want 
it most. Their love affair certainly made no immediate progress. 
Mr. Wilson appropriated Gertie, and Kate took possession of Bertie. 

“You mustn’t follow Yerena like a dog, now her husband is 
here,” she said to him, in her light way. So he followed Kate, but 
she found him rather heavy on hand. He was no longer the merry 
boy he had been. No wonder, thought Yerena, when he saw a ri- 
val stepping in before him. Perhaps Gertie took the same view of 
the matter, but it was not shared by the others. 

No one ever knew what Bertie really did think or feel in these 
days. But he grew visibly older. He had been very boyish for his 
three-and-twenty years, and seemed all the younger for the absence 
of certain ungracious hypocrisies — the homage which virtue in a 
young man sometimes pays to vice. He probably felt that he had, 
in his own phrase, made a fool of himself. And he was afraid that 
one or two of his friends knew it too. He only felt quite at his ease 
with Gertie ; he had always liked her much better than Kate, but, 
since the elder sister now fell to his share, he took to slipping away 
on distant excursions and lonely walks. He was rather given to 
self-communings at this time, and began to feel the comfort of a 
pipe again. He had fasted from smoking since he came to Folke- 
stone, which circumstance alone ought perhaps to have warned 
him. 

One dull evening at the close of a rainy day, Bertie hid himself 
on a ledge below the brow of those green cliffs on which modern 
Folkestone stands. He was lying smoking on the damp grass with 
youth’s happy disregard of rheumatism. Presently two ladies seat- 
ed themselves just above his hiding-place. One of them began to 
speak in an undertone; Bertie could not hear her. But a sound in- 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


11 

audible at first sometimes reaches the ear presently. She was say- 
ing, 

“Make hay while the sun shines. Your pretty looks won’t last. 
You had no beauty till you were twenty, you will have none after 
you are about five-and-twenty. And you have nothing to recom- 
mend you but your looks. Men don’t fall m love with the cardinal 
virtues.” 

Then clear and shrill sounded out a voice which was never mod- 
ulated, 

“I don’t care; I’ll be an ugly old maid. Wild horses sha’n’t drag 
me to marry that horrid Mr. Wilson.” 

Bertie waited to hear no more. He rolled down the clifl: regard- 
less of consequences, sooner than either listen to or face the speak- 
ers. 

It was well that he escaped, for, after a shocked “Hush!” Kate 
went on, 

“You would like Mr. Wilson well enough if you had not fallen 
in love with a handsome boy who does not care a fig for you, and 
wouldn’t marry you if he did. Here I’ve been keeping him out of 
the way, till I’ve almost fallen in love with him myself, and he nev- 
er made one effort to get back to you, or to cut out the other man.” 

Kate did not dare to tell Gertie the real state of the matter. She 
had hoped that Emmeline might do so. But Emmeline, too, feared 
James. 

Gertie was, in truth, beginning to doubt whether Bertie cared for 
her as she had thought, but she had no intention of taking the oth- 
er man. 

“One is not obliged to marry,” she told her sister, and Kate found 
it impossible to shake the position she took up and held on that 
simple statement. Mrs. Payn and even Mr. Grey were on Mr. Wil- 
son’s side as well as Kate, and Mr. Wilson was old enough and clev- 
er enough to conduct his addresses very skilfully. There was no 
chance of his risking a premature offer, and so giving Gertie the 
right to repulse him. And he presumed on the fact that a girl can 
scarcely treat an undeclared suitor with positive rudeness. Bertie 
now began to notice Wilson’s persecution, as he called it. And he 
began to get in the way, and make himself generally a nuisance to 
the lover. 

“ They say ‘many a heart is caught in the rebound,’ ’’remarked 
Kate, ‘ ‘ but many more hearts are caught by rivalry, and both are 
working for Gertie. Luckily she is too great a fool to play off one 
lover against the other, or we should have Bertie at her fee^ in no 
time.” 


18 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The quiet life at Folkestone seemed over when Mr. Grey came. 
The place was filling fast, and they began to meet friends. Sir Har- 
ris and Lady Copeland stayed a week at the Pavilion, and Verena 
heard much oflacial talk. Sir Harris had been Attqrney -general, and 
was named for higher ofiBce in the next government, when Mr. Grey 
might be expected to step into a vacant place. 

Lady Copeland had, as Kate expressed it, ‘Haken Verena under 
her wing.” She prophesied great social successes for her, and her 
compliments passing through Kate’s lips lost neither warmth nor 
color. She thought they would at least please James, and move 
him to greater efforts. It was of no use trying to excite Yerena’s 
vanity or ambition. She had no such qualities. 

* ‘ And I call it monstrous, ” observed Kate to Emmeline. ‘ ‘ Heaven 
sends biscuits to those who have no teeth; but a young, handsome, 
clever woman has no business to be toothless. ” 

Verena heard enough of her husband’s prospects to fill her with 
dismay, but she had no intention of rebelling against fate. Her hus- 
band must stand for Parliament and take oflSce in due time. She 
must submit to have her portrait painted and hung in the Exhibi- 
tion. She must be presented, and go through the season. There 
was no one to advise or help her now. Her father had ordered her 
life down to a certain point, and then left her to fulfil her destiny as 
she best could. 

Verena had been waiting till her husband came, to visit her fa- 
ther’s grave at Boulogne. 

We two alone,” she had said. But Gertie, who had never been 
anywhere, wanted to cross the channel, and Bertie asked leave to 
go too. 

“ Only don’t let us have that fellow Wilson,” he observed. 

Kate offered to come and look after the young people, that Verena 
and James might go their own way. Emmeline was a bad sailor, 
and feared the passage. She arranged to spend the day with Mrs. 
Clifton, a new acquaintance, with whom she was at present enjoying 
the honeymoon stage of friendship, Mrs. Clifton was the rival 
bride, as Mr. Grey had once called her — the lady whose resemblance 
to Mara struck every one but Verena, who refused to see it. She 
did not take to Mrs. Clifton. 

“ She never seems to nie to ring true,” was her remark; to which 
Kate replied, 

“ Oh, I care very little how people ring if they amuse me. Mrs. 
Clifton is fi^ll of fufi; ghe knows lots of people. She has a 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


79 


brother coming from Paris, too, rich and unattached, and very good- 
looking, a handsome likeness of herself. She showed me his photo. ” 

“What is his name?” asked Verena, with some vague misgiving. 

“Needham,” said Kate. “She told me that was her maiden 
name. Emmeline and I ought to have a chance with Mr. Needham. 
Gertie can’t make room for another lover. She has one on each side 
of her already.” 

It seemed that, after several delays, Mrs. Needham’s brother might 
be expected on the very day that the Greys had chosen for their ex- 
pedition to Boulogne. 

“We shall look out for Mr. Needham,” said Kate, as she bid 
good-by to Mrs. Clifton on the pier. 

“My brother’s name is Courtenay,” replied Mrs. Clifton; “he is 
my half-brother,” she added. 

Mr. Grey called Kate, and she hurried on board. Verena was al- 
ready sitting on deck. She was finishing a letter from Annette, 
which she had not found time to read in the hurry of getting off. 

“You look troubled,” said her husband, sitting down beside her. 

‘ ‘ Annette writes in bad spirits. She is staying at Guines, that 
wretched dull place, while her husband is away trying to find work. ” 
And Verena gave him the letter. 

“ I think she seems unhappy, though she tries to hide it,” observed 
Mr. Grey. “Would you like to ask her to come and visit you at 
Folkestone?” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Verena, eagerly. “ Poor Annette! she seemed 
so happy at first. Her letters from Paris were all sunshine. ” 

Mr. Grey thought it was more probably moonshine. He had no 
faith in Achille Dagomet. 

“ I wonder whether Mara will be pleased to see her mother?” he 
remarked. 

Verena made no reply. She looked away over the bright sea, with 
a sudden sense of pain. She had not been quite so gay the last few 
days, Mr. Grey thought. Perhaps she was thinking of her father. 
Mr. Grey was carrying a box with a cross of fiowers to lay on the 
grave. It recalled a vision of Verena with her little basket, as he 
had seen her on their wedding-day. 

“ Do you remember our last crossing?” he asked, softly. 

Verena turned, and smiled kindly, almost lovingly, but her eyes 
were full of tears. 

“I am much happier than I was then,” she replied. 

“ What a strange, sad bride, I had,” he whispered, “ though a very 
sweet one! I think she is more like other girls now.” 

Yes; sometimes lately she had felt almost like other girls. And, 
for all the peace which had come into her life, she had to thank him. 
His tenderness and consideration were not all wasted. Verena 
scarcely felt like the same girl who had gone forth, with such sor- 
rowful reluctance, to share hjs life a few months before. She had 
never thought of loving him then. But she felt now that she might 
learn to love him. And then her punishment would be complete! 
Seeing that Verena was thoughtful, Mr. Grey scarcely spoke again 


80 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


during tlie passage. He had a way of humoring his wife’s moods, 
and studied her, as perhaps no younger man would have done. Had 
there been no cloud between them, he would probably have made 
her the happiest of wives. 

As on their wedding-day, so now again, Mr. Grey and Yerena on 
landing went straight to the cemetery. It was full of roses now, 
and some were blooming on Mr. Dogan’s grave. Yerena thought 
how much brighter the place looked than it did when she had seen 
it in the spring, and it seemed to her fancy like a symbol of her own 
life. Her father had made her marry Mr. Grey, and she had done 
well in obeying him. Yet she had disobeyed the voice of conscience. 
Yerena remembered how she had once disobeyed her father, but he 
had forgiven her and accepted her suffering as an atonement for her 
offence. Had her heavenly Father forgiven her too, and would he 
shield her from the consequences of her sin? She bent her head in 
thankfulness, believing that it was so. Then she gathered a bunch 
of the roses, and was going away. But she turned back and said to 
her husband, 

“ If I die, will you bury me here? If I die soon, I mean.” 

“I suppose you mean if you die first. I hope that is not likely.” 

Yerena went on: 

‘ ‘ Annette has another husband, my mother is buried at Geneva. 
It seems so lonely to be buried in a strange country, with none of 
one’s own people near.” 

Mr. Grey did not like the subject. He spoke half playfully, 

“ I want you to share my life. I would not give you back to your 
father if he were living. You must not want to join him now.” 

“I don’t want to die,” said Yerena, “to leave you and Mara.” 
Then, with a sudden fear, she asked, ‘ ‘ What would become of Mara 
if I died? You would be kind to her, but she would not be happy 
with Emmeline.” 

“We have got on a cheerful subject, but if it will make your mind 
any easier, I will promise that under any circumstances Mara shall 
be to me as my own child.” 

“ Under any circumstances,” repeated Yerena, very earnestly, 
‘ ‘ even the most cruel. If you should cease to love me, if you should 
even cease to think well of me, will you promise me, James, always 
to be a friend to Mara. She would have no one in the world but 
you,” cried Yerena, forgetting all Annette’s real or fancied claims. 

“ She imagines that I might marry again,” thought Mr. Grey, still 
wondering how that should affect his good opinion of her. He 
could not always quite understand his wife. But he looked at her a 
little anxiously. She had grown somewhat less ethereal-looking of 
late, he thought, yet he could never shake off an impression that 
there was something not quite earthly about her. He remembered 
too that her mother had died young, and that her father had been 
consumptive. 

“ You are not ill, Yerena?” then, as she shook her head, he went 
on, “I shall not let you come to the cemetery again; it makes you 
morbid.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


81 


I think I am a little morbid to-day,” confessed Verena. “I don’t 
know why. But you needn’t be anxious about me, I am quite 
well.” 

As they walked back, she talked a little about her past life ; a sub- 
ject she very seldom touched upon. Mr. Grey had gathered from 
others, rather than from herself, that Mr. Dogan’s companions had 
not always been such as he should have chosen. He seemed to have 
gone a little astray after his wife’s death, but to have reformed after 
he married again. Perhaps failing health had something to do with 
the reform. Verena’s early associations had not always been such 
as her husband cared to think about. And, since she had not been 
defiled by touching pitch, he supposed that the contact had sobered 
her. 

Why did the past come back to Verena that day? She had learn- 
ed almost to put it from her. But its shadow fell over her now. 

Even the lively company of the young people, as she chose to call 
Gertie, Bertie, and Kate, could not drive it away. They had a mer- 
ry dinner together, but there seemed something unreal in the mirth 
to Verena. Even Mr. Grey noticed that gloomy subjects would in- 
trude themselves that day. 

“I have been picking gooseberries and your roses,” remarked 
Kate, with a glance at Verena’s flowers. 

“Such lovely roses,” cried Gertie. “I wish I could find some 
like them.” 

Verena took one or two from the bunch and offered them. 

“I would give you more,” she said, “only they grew on my fa- 
ther’s grave.” 

Gertie drew back. 

“Oh, don’t smell them, Verena. ‘Who smells a church -yard 
flower smells death within the year.’ ” 

“ Then I must certainly die,” observed Verena, “ for I have been 
smelling them all the afternoon.” Then, as her husband bent for- 
ward, asking to share her fate, she put the flowers from him. ‘ ‘ They 
won’t hurt me ; I have so often smelled the flowers in that cemetery 
before. Not that I want to die any more than the rest of you,” she 
added. 

She had once felt it hard to live. But sometimes of late she had 
felt that life was sweet. 

Verena was scarcely heeding her lovers to-day, though Kate could 
have told her that their romance was making rapid progress. 

As they stood on deck waiting for the boat to start on their re- 
turn journey, Mr. Grey drew his wife’s attention to a pretty picture. 

“ Things seem to be going as you wished,” he remarked. 

Bertie had procured a bunch of roses which were not “church- 
yard flowers,” and he was begging in exchange a rose very much the 
worse for a day’s wear, which Gertie had pinned in her dress that 
morning. But beyond the boy and girl Verena saw the figure of a 
tall man who was just coming on board. The smile was arrested on 
! her lips and the lines of her face grew rigid, while her heart seemed 
j to stand still, Then, by a sudden effort, she rallied herself and fled 

a 


82 


A DAUGHTEK OF THE GODS. 


into the ladies’ cabin, falling on one of the berths with a sense of re- 
lief that her limbs had carried her so far. 

No need to ask if she were ill. Mr. Grey had followed and offer- 
ed her brandy, water, and salts without any questions. But he want- 
ed to take her back into the air. 

“Let me get you a deck cabin,” he said, “ it will be better for you.” 

“Don’t make me move,” was all she asked. She lay down in the 
berth and bid him leave her there. And as the cabin was filling 
fast Mr. Grey could scarcely remain. ‘ ‘ I am better already, ” she 
said, making a desperate effort to get rid of him. 

And when he was gone she buried her face in the pillow, and for a 
time seemed scarcely to think, only to suffer. The past had been 
haunting her all day, and now it had suddenly become real; she was 
actually living in it again. The past to her was one man, and after 
six years he had risen again in her path. He had not seen her, she 
was sure of that, but he was near her — the man from whom she had 
parted on the sands at Ostend, whom she had hoped and prayed 
never to see again. She did not recall how wildly she had loved 
the man. All recollection of that love had died with the love itself, 
in the agony of passion and pain with which she had discovered his 
unworthiness. But it seemed to Yerena that she had never quite real- 
ized the full horror of her position till now, when her husband — the 
best husband a woman ever had, as she told herself remorsefully — 
stood beside the man whom she had for one week believed to be her 
husband. 

Six years ago, when her father had forbidden her to see Arthur 
Courtenay again, Yerena had eloped with him. He told her they 
could not be married in a church for fear of discovery, but they could 
go on board a Queen’s ship and be married there. Yerena had no 
misgivings. She had often heard and read of people being married 
on board ship. It was not difficult to deceive an innocent, trusting 
girl of sixteen. They went, in fact, on board Mr. Courtenay’s yacht. 
Yerena scarcely knew one vessel from another, and the graceful and 
powerful schooner might have imposed on a more competent judge. 
The captain, as he was called, read the marriage service over them 
and they were landed at Ostend. But Mr. Dogan followed hard on 
their track, and Courtenay, conscious that his circumstances were 
known to the father of the girl whom he had duped, told her the 
truth. Their marriage was a mockery. He could not make it good 
if he would, for he had a wife living. This was the substance of 
what he told, though he tried to soften the shameful revelation by a 
thousand assurances of devotion and constancy. But Yerena had 
suddenly flown from his side. 

“What do you take me for?” she had cried, with a ring of an- 
guish sounding above the passionate indignation in her voice. 

Something of defiance, some assertion, as he thought, of injured 
innocence, had angered Courtenay. 

“ Come,” he had replied, half-coaxingly, “you don’t pretend that 
you were really taken in. Such a marriage as ours would not have 
deceived a baby . ” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


83 


This crowning insult was too much. A sudden sense of convul- 
sion and destruction had come into Verena’s world. Mokanna’s 
bride did not suffer a more fearful shock when her bridegroom’s true 
features were revealed to her. One dumb stare of horror, then she 
turned and fled. Courtenay sought her in vain. She had disap- 
peared out of sight, and might have disappeared out of life for any- 
thing that he could hear of her. 

Verena had gone back to her father. Deceived, outraged, bewil- 
dered, she had sense enough left to seek that one refuge. And many 
a better father might not have received the heart-broken penitent so 
kindly as Mr. Dogan did. He believed her story, but knowing Cour- 
tenay to be married, he saw no redress. Any attempt to punish the 
man would only publish Yerena’s shame. She was such a child 
that she might live down this short episode and begin life afresh. 

Mr. Dogan set himself to hush the story up. No one knew it but 
Annette. He married her, and bribed her with all his little fortune 
to keep the secret. Mr. Dogan carried matters with a high hand, 
but he did not count on being cut down in his prime of life and 
leaving two helpless creatures to flght the battle alone. Mr. Grey 
had come as if sent from heaven at the very moment when help was 
most needed. There was no real obstacle, as Mr. Dogan considered, 
in the way of his marrying Yerena. She was free, though every 
womanly feeling prompted her to give no man the hand which could 
never be washed white. Yet she had yielded to make a home for 
the child. For what child? Ah! bitterest shame of all. For the 
child of Arthur Courtenay! Mara, the creature Yerena loved best 
on earth, was his child and hers. 

The unhappy girl-mother had been allowed to keep her treasure 
only on condition that she never claimed it as her own. Even be- 
tween themselves her father had insisted that the child should be 
called Annette’s. Nature fought hard to betray the secret, yet it 
had been kept. But now — was the father himself coming to Folke- 
stone to read Yerena’s .secret in his child’s face? Anything rather 
than that, she cried to herself. Let her husband know, let the whole 
world know, sooner than Arthur Courtenay should know he was 
Mara’s father! Yerena had no love for him now, she loathed him. 

But she had more than a mother’s love for Mara. To say that she 
would have given her life for the child is to use mere idle words. 
She would have given her soul. For Mara’s sake she could not even 
abstain from wrong-doing. She knew that she could not wish the 
horrible past unlived, because without that past there would have 
been no Mara. Yerena had ever been a slave to this love. From 
the beginning she would have faced the world desperately with her 
baby on her arms and her cruel story on her lips ; but her father had 
told her that shame must fall not on her only but on the child. She 
would have told the truth to Mr. Grey, but her father had bid her 
keep silence for Mara’s sake. And now, in her present strait, she felt 
that it would be almost a relief to conflde in her husband, if she 
could do so without betraying Mara. He loved the child of his old 
friend. Could he love the nameless child of his wife? 


84 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Verena sprang up in her berth, and found herself face to face 
with Gertie. She almost uttered an expression of impatience. But 
Gertie was not observant, she was full of pity and affectionate con- 
cern ; then, being told that Verena was better, she began trying to 
amuse her. 

“We have met Mrs. Clifton’s brother. James and Kate are talk- 
ing to him. I suppose you did not see him, as you came down di- 
rectly. He is so tall, even taller than Bertie; and Kate says he is 
better looking, but I call that nonsense. Why he must be well 
over thirty. His name isn’t Needham, as we thought; it is Cour- 
tenay. ” 

It was well that Gertie had come, after all, to prepare Verena for 
this new danger. She had been wondering how she could get on 
shore without being recognized. It would be growing dark, but 
the pier was lighted up. Now it seemed impossible to hide herself 
from Courtenay. If she concealed her identity to-night, he would 
still find out who she was from the Cliftons. Her strange name, 
her beauty, even the photograph which she had been foolish enough 
to have taken, would betray her. But she would not face Arthur 
Courtenay to-night if she could help it. 

“Gertie,” she said, “will you ask James to fetch me after most 
of the people have landed. Tell him I am much better, but I want 
to keep as quiet as possible, and to avoid crowding or meeting 
friends. Get him alone, and tell him quietly,” she added; “don’t 
make a fuss about me.” 

Oh, the comfort of having a husband who might be trusted to 
carry out her lightest wishes without question or demur ! Mr. Grey 
arranged everything so that Verena should suffer no disturbance or 
delay. Directly the boat stopped he sent Bertie for a carriage. Ve- 
rena stayed in the cabin till it was ready for her. The pier was al- 
most deserted when she came up. Mr. Courtenay had felt no curi- 
osity to see the sea-sick Mrs. Grey. He had landed among the first, 
and gone off with his sister. Verena drove home, and sat down 
with a momentary sense of relief. 

^ There was a light tap at the door, and Lisette came in, bearing a 
little white figure wrapped in a shawl. 

“ She would not go to sleep till I brought her down to say good- 
night, ” she said, apologetically. 

Mara stretched herself towards the arms which were ever ready 
to receive her. But for the first time the sight of her brought a 
cruel pain to Verena’s heart. Mara had been wholly hers. She 
had never thought of another’s part in her. And now she had to 
guard her child from the chance recognition of a father’s eye. God 
forbid that he should ever know his own ! Yet betrayal threatened 
from the innocent baby face — above all, from those clear eyes through 
which heaven alone had seemed to look on Verena. 

Mara nestled to her, half sleepy, yet babbling about the little 
events of her happy day. Presently she clutched the roses, which 
had never left Verena’s dress, and buried her face in them. Verena 
remembered Gertie’s words. She tore the flowers away. Then, 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


85 


without warning or preparation, she broke into such a passion of 
hysterical weeping as frightened all those around her. 

When she came to herself, she was lying on her bed, with a doc- 
tor and her husband beside her. They did not worry her to ac- 
count for the sudden outburst. The doctor had already asked 
whether she had received any shock, and been told “No.” 

Verena slept well with the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, but her 
husband sat up and watched all night. He was sorely troubled by 
his wife’s strange seizure, and a horrible doubt was tormenting him. 
He remembered how happy she had seemed when he came down to 
Folkestone ; he recalled her bright look, her merry laugh, as he had 
heard it that first night on the Lees. She had held rather aloof 
from one of her young companions after that, and he had, as Mr. 
Grey heard Kate say, consoled himself. To-day, for the first time, 
Bertie and Gertie had quite forsaken Yerena for each other; and, 
when he had himself drawn her attention to their obvious love-mak- 
ing, she had suddenly rushed away, and this unaccountable illness, 
which he knew to be more mental than bodily, had seized upon 
her. 

Mr. Grey suddenly turned upon himself. What was he thinking 
of ? Was he becoming jealous, suspicious, fanciful ? He crossed 
the room, and stood looking at Verena. He could just see the ouL 
line of her pure face in the half light. His innocent, blameless wife! 
He might as well associate the thought of evil with her baby sister. 

Through all the months of their married life, Yerena had never 
given him a cold look or a cross word; she had never been rebel- 
lious, selfish, or inconsiderate. Yet something had been wanting. 
Her gentle duty, her . kind friendliness, were not all that a man asks 
for in his wife. Had he hindered her from finding a woman’s best 
and most natural lot when he bound her life to the life of a man 
who might have been her father? It was of no use thinking of that 
now, Mr. Grey told himself. Yerena was his, and he had only to 
make her life as happy as he could. 

In the early morning Yerena awoke. Before the household was 
stirring, Mr. Grey had boiled a little kettle with a spirit-lamp and 
made her a cup of tea. 

“ Not perhaps the best thing for an hysterical patient,” as he told 
her. 

“ But I am not hysterical now.” Then, looking at him, she asked, 
“Have you had no sleep?” 

“No; that won’t hurt me. It is well to begin training; I shall 
get short nights when I am in the House. ” 

“But I don’t want you to be in the House,” cried Yerena; “it 
will take all your time — we shall lose our evenings. And I don’t 
want you to be Solicitor-General, or Lord Chancellor either. Why 
have you grown so ambitious ? You never used to care for such 
things, I know.” 

“Perhaps I am more ambitious for you than for myself. Lady 
Grey.” 

“I don’t want to be Lady Grey — I like plain Mrs. much better. 


§6 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS* 


I shall only be like the Lady of Burleigh if you force these things 
upon me. I have neither health nor spirit for them,” she cried, 
despairingly. 

This allusion to her health rather frightened Mr. Grey. 

“I will do nothing against your will,” he said; “but remember 
it is now or never with me. You are young enough to change your 
mind, and may regret some day that I let this chance slip.” 

“Kever!” cried Yerena. She had meant to accept her fate; but 
last evening had opened her eyes. She knew now that she lived 
with a sword over her head. Mara’s mother must keep to the safe 
by-ways of life; she must make no public display of beauty or toilet 
to be chronicled in society papers, no exhibition of photographs in 
shop-windows. Above all, she must give no Lord Chamberlain the 
right to inquire into her antecedents. She spoke again more quietly. 

“Nature never meant me for a fine lady. And I never expected 
to be one when I married you. Do you know, James, I thought 
that all lawyers lived in a poky way, like Mr. Danby in ‘ Emilia 
Wyndham.’ ” 

Verena’s examples were mostly drawn from the world of fiction 
in which she had passed her early years. Not modern fiction either. 
The popular authors of a by-gone day had formed the staple of her 
library. 

Mr. Grey was amused. 

“ So you were disappointed at not finding me like Mr. Danby.” 

“ Not at all. I always thought him a most unpleasant man. But 
I should be quite happy if we lived in Charlotte Street and you came 
home every evening to tea and muffins.” 

“Well, 1 cannot promise you quite such an Elysium as that, but 
you shall not be made a fine lady against your will. Seats in the 
House and law-officerships are not exactly pressed upon people. 
Only we need not decide anything to-day. And let me tell you that 
you are talking too much for an invalid.” 

It needed no injunction from the doctor to keep Yerena in-doors 
that day. And she let Mara stay in-doors too. It was a showery 
day, and Mara was quite happy playing on the floor with her kitten. 
Yerena lay on the sofa, listening to the child’s chatter, answering her 
questions, even telling her little stories, yet carrying on an under- 
current of her own thoughts all the time. She was making up her 
mind to meet her enemy if necessary, and to meet him boldly, since 
every one was ready to crush a timid adversary. She felt that she 
could fight if she had time to collect her forces. Last night she had 
been taken by surprise and had simply run away. 

It would have been worse still if she had found herself face to face 
with Courtenay. She knew that she would have treated him as a 
stranger, and concealed all former acquaintance with him from her 
husband. But she felt now that this would be the most foolish thing 
she could do. James must be told enough to secure his aid in avoid- 
ing Courtenay. And if Courtenay did not choose to be avoided she 
must teach him to fear her. Her father had said that the man could 
be punished; Yerena had verified his statement for herself. Those 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


87 


half-hours spent among her husband’s books, and the hints which 
she had extracted from him, had furnished her with a little armory 
of threats which she had diligently committed to memory. Yerena 
was prepared. There was only one thing she really feared, that Court- 
enay might discover her to be the mother of his child. Then she felt as 
if she must sink into a mere feeble woman before him. Mara would 
seem to draw them together, to make a visible link with the past. 

Yerena watched the child’s face fearfully; there were little turns 
in its expression that frightened her now. Others had seen the like- 
ness to his sister; they must see the likeness to himself! 

Suddenly Yerena remembered Annette, and she resolved to send 
for her at once. A visible tangible mother for Mara would divert 
suspicion. She wrote a pressing invitation and sent Lisette to post 
it. Then she told her husband what she had done, reminding him 
of his permission. Mr. Grey laughed good-humoredly. After din- 
ner he went out rather mysteriously and stopped out late. Yerena 
grew uneasy, wondering whether he could have met Courtenay. At 
last, when she had worked herself into a fever of impatience and 
anxiety, she heard a carriage stop at the door, then a sound as of lug- 
gage, a lighter step than her husband’s, a voice and a laugh that she 
knew well. It was Annette. Before Yerena had even thought of 
writing, Mr. Grey had acted. He had telegraphed to Guines in the 
early morning and met Annette at Dover that night. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“You must see the beautiful Mrs. Grey, Arthur,” said Mrs. Clif- 
ton to her brother. 

“ What, the wife of the old boy I met on the boat?” 

“Yes, his young wife. Every one is raving about her. They say 
she is the prettiest woman in London. The Copelands have taken 
her lip. Sir Harris is to be Lord Chancellor when we come in, and 
I suppose Mr. Grey is on his way to the wool-sack too. How I wish 
Robert would take silk!” 

“ If I take silk, you must take cotton,” said her husband, looking 
over his Times. 

“What nonsense! As if you couldn’t do as well as Mr. Grey. 
You are just as clever.” 

‘ ‘ He has got the horse by the head and I by the tail, that’s all the 
difference between us.” 

“Then I wish you would get the horse by the head. I want to 
be presented in the spring like Mrs. Grey. I am every bit as good 
as she is.” 

“Who was she?” asked Arthur Courtenay, carelessly. 

“ Oh, nobody. Mr. Grey picked her up at Boulogne. Her name 
was Yerena Dogan.” 

Courtenay started slightly. 


88 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


What a queer name! Well, what is she like? As tall as a may- 
pole, I suppose.” 

“Yes, very tall and very fair. Perfectly handsome so far as feat- 
ures and complexion go. And she dresses beautifully; she must 
spend a fortune. Her husband had no first wife to spend his money 
for him.” 

And Mrs. Clifton glanced at her husband, whose first wife had 
been as extravagant as her successor wished to be. 

“You must show me this beauty,” said Courtenay. 

“ Is she usually out?” he asked, after hanging about the Lees and 
the pier all the morning in vain. 

“ Oh yes, never in! We are sure to meet her to-morrow.” 

But on the morrow there was still no Verena. They met Mr. 
Grey and Emmeline; Courtenay had even a glimpse of his old friend 
Annette as she went down to the beach with her little girl. 

“ Poor Verena,” he thought; “she is afraid to show her face.” He 
had not intended to stay more than a day or two at Folkestone, but 
he could not leave without seeing his old love. 

“When are you going to produce your mysterious beauty?” he 
asked his sister, on the third day. 

“ I don’t know. She has been laid up, it seems. She was very ill 
crossing from Boulogne, and then in the evening she went into hys- 
terics and frightened them all out of their wits. But Emmeline de- 
clares that she is quite well enough to come out now if she liked.” 

So Verena had seen him that first evening! And perhaps she 
meant to feign illness so long as he stopped in the place. No wonder 
she feared him. Mr. Grey might not be quite the sort of man to 
take a romantic girl’s fancy, but he certainly looked an awkward 
customer to play tricks with. “Well up in the seamy side of hu- 
manity, too,” he supposed. 

“You shall see Mrs. Grey before you go,” said Mrs. Clifton. “ I 
will take you to call, if there is no other way. But I think she must, 
come to my picnic.” 

Courtenay did not want to call with his sister. He would very 
much have preferred to meet Verena at the picnic. It would be 
hard if he could not find some means of getting her apart and com- 
ing to an understanding with her. He did not want to frighten 
Verena. He would feign penitence, assume the role of friendship, 
do anything to reassure her. Verena could lay no inconvenient 
claim to him now. But she was in his power, and the situation had 
its charms. 

“I don’t know that I shall go to your picnic,” he said in the 
morning; “the post has brought me such a lot of letters to an- 
swer.” 

He did not think that Verena would go, but he could change his 
mind at the last if she did. She stayed away, and Mr. Grey stayed 
with her, which rather disconcerted Courtenay’s plans. But he kept 
watch on the house, for he did not think that Mr. Grey would stay 
in all day. Late in the afternoon he saw Mr. Grey come out and 
walk briskly in the direction of the pier. The book-stall at the bar- 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


89 


bor station was probably his destination. Courtenay had often seen 
him there. 

Now was Iiis opportunity, he thought. He could avail himself of 
sea-side ways and walk straight into the house without the interven- 
tion of servants. Verena was probably in the drawing-room. No 
doubt of that. A tall, white figure had stepped forward for a mo- 
ment into the balcony, and stood looking, not towards him, but in 
the direction Mr. Grey had taken. Verena — his Verena! A school- 
girl no longer. A woman — and such a woman! The only beauty 
he had ever seen of whom the report did not outrun the reality. 

He thought, as he entered the house, that it was well she had not 
seen him. But, leaning over the balcony, she had turned and caught 
one glimpse. He was coming in! Verena ran to the bell. S^he 
would have him turned out. But suddenly she stopped. No! Bet- 
ter seize this chance to see him. Now or never, she thought. The 
handle of the door turned. Courtenay was in the room! 

If his coming to her was an insult, the look with which she faced 
him was an insult too. It almost expressed the contempt she felt. 
He addressed her deferentially. 

“Forgive my coming thus, Mrs. Grey. I only wish to tell you 
that you have nothing to fear from me. I would not for the world 
injure you in your present position. Nothing should induce — ” 

Verena had let him speak so far. Then she made a gesture to stop 
him. Perhaps it would have been impossible for Courtenay to ap- 
proach Verena in any way that could conciliate her; but this affecta- 
tion of regard for her welfare, this pretence of conferring a favor, 
seemed to her the most offensive line he could have taken. 

Looking him full in the face, she said, 

“I am not at all afraid that you will speak of a transaction which 
might cast you into a jail. And you would find my husband an 
awkward antagonist to meet on his own ground.” 

Courtenay was completely taken aback. But he was clever enough 
! to seize his adversary’s weak point. 

I “Of course Mr. Grey knows all about it,” he said, with polite in- 
I credulity. 

I “No, my father would not let me tell him before we married. 

I But, sooner than bear any annoyance from you, I will tell him now.” 
I “And you think that he will take the explanation quite easily 
and pleasantly?” 

“He may well blame me for my deceit; in all else he will hold 
me guiltless. But, for your own sake, you are not likely to drive 
me to extremities. I am not a child now, and I have a strong pro- 
tector.” 

Verena did not mean to reflect on her father, but Courtenay felt 
the difference. 

Then, with a passionate recollection of his crowning insult, Ve- 
rena went on : 

“You told me, I remember, that our marriage ceremony would 
not have deceived a baby; yet an older person than I might have 
been deceived as I was. It is quite true that a marriage by the cap- 


90 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


tain of a Queen's ship is no marriage, but a great many people 
thought that it was — so many that an act of Parliament was passed 
two years later to legalize such marriages, and prevent* them for the 
future.” 

“We never were on a Queen's ship, as it happens, '' said Court- 
enay. 

“No, you deceived me into thinking your yacht a Queen’s ship; 
but an English yacht is English soil, and, if you have guarded your- 
self from a charge of bigamy, you are at least guilty of conspiracy. 
I can give you the acts under which you might be convicted if you 
like.” 

The fact that Verena repeated her lesson parrot-wise rather en- 
hanced its effect, for it seemed to show that she had, as people say, 
been getting her subject up. Courtenay was not only surprised but 
alarmed. That his conduct had been lawless in a loose, irresponsi- 
ble, romantic way he never doubted; but such contingencies as in- 
dictment and hard labor had not entered into his calculations. This 
practical common-sense and cool resolution were the last qualities 
he would have expected from his early acquaintance with Verena’s 
character. But his vanity moved him to try a new course. She 
had once been as wax in his hands. 

“Yerena,”he said, softly, “you loved me once. And now I am 
free, and would have made you the only reparation in my power.” 

“I would not have accepted your reparation even six years ago, 
after I knew what you were,” cried Verena, passionately. “You 
have never had any power over me since. You have none now; 
for I do not fear to throw myself on the mercy of a good man. 
And, if I am forced, I will tell my tale aloud, and carry the world 
with me!” 

As she certainly would, Courtenay thought, looking at her. He 
had not cared very much for the sentimental little girl whom he 
had betrayed. Her romance and devotion would have soon wea- 
ried him. He had held her very cheap. But he thought that he 
could have loved this beautiful woman who defied him. He might 
certainly have reason to fear such an antagonist before a male tri- 
bunal. Yerena’s name might suffer before the dreadful Areopagus 
of the tea-table, but in an English court her beauty would make 
dangerous odds against her betrayer. 

Yerena had said all that she wished. She would hear no more 
from Courtenay. It only remained for her to dismiss him. And 
help was at hand. She heard her husband coming; a moment more 
and he was in the room. She fiew to his side joyfully, confidently. 

Courtenay had a glimpse of the loving, trusting Yerena of old. 

“James,” she cried, “this man has forced himself into my pres- 
ence against my will!” 

Mr. Grey's first feeling was probably one of utter astonishment, 
not perhaps of incredulity but of something like incapacity to real- 
ize the situation. It must be remembered that he only knew Court- 
enay as a connection of his friend Clifton, but it was impossible to 
doubt for a moment Yerena's sincerity, and he knew that she was 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


91 


not a woman to be irrationally angry or alarmed. The stranger 
must be an aggressor. Mr. Grey instinctively moved between his 
wife and the man she accused. It seemed for a moment as if the 
men would be in actual personal conflict, nor was the idea absolute- 
ly repulsive to Mr. Grey. To a strong man whose nerves are un- 
shaken a personal struggle is not always unwelcome, and Mr. Grey, 
without analyzing his own feelings, was probably not without a con- 
sciousness that to be the champion of his beautiful wife would lend 
him in her eyes some of the romantic interest which he sometimes 
felt was wanting in their union. In his youth he had been an ath- 
lete of the solid order, and there was no such disparity of years that 
Courtenay’s height and activity might not be overmatched in a close 
space where there were no seconds to drag a successful wrestler’s 
knee from his opponent’s throat or chest, and where the first fall 
would probably for all practical purposes decide the matter. 

But the danger of actual strife, if any existed, was obviated by 
Courtenay. He drew slightly back, with an elevation of the eye- 
brows, and a smile which he endeavored to render politely forbear- 
ing. The contest had become a purely intellectual one, and that 
was not altogether to the advantage of the younger man*, for where- 
as he was for many good reasons embarrassed and afraid, the elder 
man was not only unconscious of wrong but had been trained to 
use his wits in a hurry. A few seconds of reflection had shown 
him that his only possible course as a man of the world was to ac- 
cept his wife’s statement and to request Mr. Courtenay’s departure 
with just so much politeness as might be consistent with the intima- 
tion that the request must be obeyed. 

But Courtenay made one last effort to subdue Verena. He had 
not taken the full measure of her courage yet. 

“Let me at least tell my story,” he said. 

“Yes, let him tell it,” cried Verena. 

She almost wished that he would. She was strung up to bear, 
and a triumphant confidence in her husband’s loyalty upheld her. 
And Courtenay had not yet found out her weakest point. The dis- 
covery she most dreaded had not menaced her. 

Mr. Grey intervened. 

‘ ‘ Any explanations or apologies you may make to me at another 
time. I will convey them to my wife. At present you are in a 
lady’s drawing-room, and she wishes you to leave it. ” 

There waS a moment’s silence. Then Courtenay, bowing gravely, 
moved towards the door. It happened that Verena and Mr. Grey 
were standing in front of it, and it seemed as if the intruder could 
hardly pass without jostling them. But Mr. Grey, with a half -smile 
directed wholly to his wife, drew her gently on one side, and with a 
sigh of relief she heard the door close noiselessly behind her enemy. 

Then Verena’s good angel prompted her to tell all. Never again 
would so fair an opportunity offer. She had sought her husband’s 
protection against the man ; she had bid the man tell his own story. 
She believed that her husband would forgive her. But if she neg- 
lected this chance, if she deceived him with half-truths now, Verena 


92 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


knew that there would remain no place for repentance. She must 
carry on her deceit to the end. But, in spite of her silence, the 
truth might some day come out as truth will. And then she did 
not think that James could ever forgive her, the breach between 
them would be complete. It would be best for her own sake to tell 
him now — but — would it be well for Mara? No, there would be 
altered looks, cold kindness for her darling, a blight would fall on 
that joyous little life. With a vague sense of sacrificing self for her 
child’s sake, Verena resolved on silence. Her hand at least should 
never tear down the veil which hid Mara’s reproach. She went on 
blindly in her wrong course, for it was innocent Mara who led her 
astray — it was pure mother’s love which tempted her to sin. Forc- 
ing back all her true instincts, heedless of the pain her evil resolve 
cost her, Verena turned to meet the kind eyes that were watching 
her with anxiety, but with unshaken trust. Her husband would 
ask no questions; she must tell her own story. There should be no 
direct falsehood, but Verena did not deceive herself into thinking 
that she was therefore true. 

“ Of all my poor father’s associates that man was the worst,” she 
said. ‘ ‘ I have disobeyed my father’s command in even speaking to 
him now. Six years ago he bound me by a promise never to hold 
any communication with Arthur Courtenay again.” 

This was true. Mr. Dogan had not known or trusted the strength 
of his daughter’s determination. 

“Did he rnake love to you, Verena?” asked Mr. Grey. 

“Yes,” said Verena, boldly; “he dared to make love to me, though 
he had a wife living at the time. ” 

Mr. Grey put his arm round his wife as gently as she might have 
put her own round Mara. 

“Verena,” he said, “I think you told me once that you had nev- 
er been in love?” 

“No,” cried Verena, “you never asked me the question. I told 
you that I loved no other man when I knew you. I did not tell 
you a falsehood, James.” 

“ Then you loved this man once?” 

“ Yes,” she said, desperately, “ till I knew him as he was.” 

She hid her face on her husband’s shoulder, and there was silence 
between them. 

It was rather a cruel revelation to Mr. Grey. He had always re- 
garded his young wife’s heart as a blank sheet. Yet he had found 
it hard to write on it as he would. 

“Six years ago,” he said, meditatively; “how old were you six 
years ago, Verena?” 

“I was sixteen.” 

“Only sixteen,” he said, laughing. “I need not be very jealous 
of any love you felt at sixteen. But it makes his conduct more 
dastardly,” he exclaimed, in a sort of fury. “Did you know this 
scoundrel was at Folkestone?” 

“Yes,” said Verena, resolved to tell all she dared; “I saw him 
that day on the boat.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


93 


Mr. Grey looked astonished. 

‘‘ Did that make you ill?'’ 

‘‘ Yes, I should have told you about him if it had not been for 
that. I meant to tell you. I would not have let you meet him as a 
friend, still less would I have met him myself. But I never dreamed 
that he would dare to walk into my house and face me in my own 
drawing-room.” 

Verena had said enough to provoke suspicion in a mind open to 
it ; yet she had no fear. But she hated herself for trading on the 
perfect confidence of her husband. She had never loved him so 
well as at this moment; she had never suffered so sharply for her 
treaehery. Her sins always brought their own punishment. 

Mr. Grey scarcely asked a question about Yerena’s interview with 
Courtenay. He supposed, from her saying so little on the subject, 
that his arrival had interrupted it at once. He walked up and down 
the room for a few moments as if to walk off his indignation. Per- 
haps he wished to recall those few minutes when he had restrained 
himself from using personal violence towards Courtenay. He re- 
solved to see him on the morrow, if the fellow had the face to stay 
in Folkestone. The disagreeable event of the day had brought 
some compensation. Yerena had accounted for all that had puzzled 
him during the last few days. And presently, when he sat down 
beside her, he felt the influence of one out of the many feelings 
which were agitating her. 

She was learning to love him ! He felt all a lover’s rapture at the 
discovery. But he would not wither the tender growth of affection 
by any gust of passion. He would still win his way gently, as he 
had won it hitherto. Yerena was strangely sensitive; he could un- 
derstand that the shock to her early love might have affected her 
very strongly. But now that he knew all about it he could deal 
with her more wisely than before. He believed that there was 
perfect confidence between them now, and that in time there might 
come to be perfect love. 

The husband and wife sat together in silence, hand-in-hand, her 
head on his shoulder. Yerena was resting after her excitement. 
Mr. Grey did not quite understand the sort of exhaustion which 
would come over her after any violent exertion of mind or body, 
but he knew that it was best to let her alone. 

“ What are you thinking of?” he asked, seeing a half -smile on her 
face. 

Yerena drew a little closer. 

“I was thinking of the day when I first knew that you wanted to 
marry me.” 

“That bright, early morning on the sands?” 

“Oh no,' weeks before that. You spoke first to my father, if you 
remember.” 

Mr. Grey remembered it well. Also that the father had promised 
to keep his secret. It was one of several new lights on the past. 
He gently stroked the soft hair pressed against his shoulder. 

“Did your father persuade you to accept me?” he asked, 


94 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


‘'Of course he did,” said Verena, simply; “he knew you better 
than I did — then.” 

She laid a most flattering stress on the last word. And she did 
not tell her husband how she had laid her head against her father’s 
pillow, exhausted with weeping and battling against her fate. But 
perhaps Mr. Grey’s imagination supplied her omissions. 

A sound of merry voices all talking together announced the re- 
turn from the picnic. 

“ Verena,” said Mr. Grey, “ let us keep our own counsel. Kot a 
word of that man or his visit.” 

Courtenay’s name seemed on every lip. 

“ A stupid picnic,” said Emmeline. “ And Mr. Courtenay wasn’t 
there.” 

“He is going away this evening,” announced Annette. 

“Yes, he came to bid us good-by,” added Emmeline ; “ he is obliged 
to go up to town.” 

Mr. Grey pressed Verena’s hand in silence. 

“What have you done with Bertie?” he asked. 

“He went home with Gertie,” replied Kate. “I think matters 
have come to a crisis; he was holding her hand all the way home. 
Not openly, as you are holding Yerena’s, but under cover of a shawl. 
Knowing Gertie’s strict propriety, I drew my conclusions. No of- 
fence meant, Madame Dagomet.” 

“ Oh, no one was holding my hand,” cried Annette, not at all of- 
fended ; ‘ ‘ you needn’t take away my character. ” 

“ I beg pardon,” replied Kate, “I thought you were consoling Mr. 
Wilson. Pouring oil into his wounds, you know, while we only 
made eyes on the opposite side.” 

“Of course you will call on Mrs. Clifton when you go back to 
town, Verena,” said Emmeline, sharply. Verena looked to her hus- 
band for help as Emmeline went on, “ She will be very much of- 
fended if you don’t. She thinks you give yourself dreadful airs, 
and she says it shows you were nobody before you married.” 

“Indeed,” said Mr. Grey;^ “then I don’t think Verena shall call 
upon her.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Annette was delighted to exchange dull Guines for Folkestone. 
She had felt pleased and flattered by Mr. Grey’s summons. Achille 
was still all the world to her, yet she sometimes felt that it would be 
well to have other friends. And she was really fond of Verena and 
Mara. She had been taken into Verena’s confidence on the night of 
her arrival. 

“Annette,” Verena said, coming into her friend’s room, “ I have 
seen that man.” 

Annette almost shrieked. Her answer was characteristic. 

Verena, you don’t care for him now?” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


95 


Verena gave an indignant denial. 

“Oh, I am so glad. Do you know that he is a widower? We 
saw his wife’s death in the Times the very morning your poor father 
died. He made me a sign to hide the paper. I am sure he thought 
it would unsettle you and make you refuse to marry Mr. Grey. ” 

“ My poor father did not know me,” said Verena, sadly. “But, 
Annette, my one fear is that he may find out about Mara. I could 
not bear that,” she cried, despairingly. 

Annette was touched. 

“ Oh, trust me, he shall never guess anything. I will play the 
fond mother to perfection. It will be a rehearsal for me,” she add- 
ed, significantly; “I can feel with you more already. Only you 
must not be jealous for a little while, Verena.” 

Verena smiled sadly. 

“I am past that folly. I even thought of sending my darling 
aw’ay, though I have no rest without her.” Then, with a sudden 
recognition of all that was implied in Annette’s allusion, she kissed 
her and said, “I am so glad; I hope that you will be a very happy 
mother.” 

“I should be delighted,” observed Annette, “only Achille hates 
children so. And his life is likely to be a wandering one. I cannot 
follow him about with a baby.” 

“You won’t want 4o,”said Verena, who thought that any baby 
must be better worth loving than Achille. “You will never know 
what it is to feel lonely.” Then, returning to her own troubles, she 
told Annette about Mrs. Clifton and the likeness to Mara. 

“Oh, I will account for that somehow,” replied Annette; “what 
was her name before she married? I’ll pretend it was my mother’s 
name. It may have been, for anything I know to the contrary.” 

“ No, you must not do that, Annette. And it would be no good 
either. Arthur Courtenay and his sister are only related through 
their mother. ” 

“ Then what was her name?” 

Verena could tell her. There had been a time when she treasured 
every little fact about Courtenay. 

“Letchnorth,” she said, in a low voice; “but you must not tell 
any falsehoods for me. ” 

“Oh, as to that,” said Annette, “I have to tell plenty for myself; 

1 to tell one, once in a way, for a friend will be rather a merit than 

I otherwise.” 

I Verena knew that a little deceit came easily enough to Annette; 

I she felt that she had counted on it when she desired her presence at 

I Folkestone. 

! “I am much worse than you are,” she replied. “ I think people 
ought to be truthful, yet my life is all deceit. But you must not 
think, Annette, that you were sent for only to be made use of. We 
had settled to ask you before this happened, and James telegraphed 
without saying a word to me.” 

“You need not apologize — I was only too glad to come. And I 
am sure that Achille will make no difficulties, ” 


96 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Annette was quite right in that respect. Achille’s first letter con- 
tained something more than a permission for her visit. 

Stay as long as you can with the Greys,” was what he wrote. 

Annette accordingly set herself to gain the good graces of the fam- 
ily. There was a great deal of prejudice to overcome in the case of 
Emmeline. But she could not help liking Annette’s company. An- 
nette loved dress, company, gossip, and all the trifles which occu- 
pied Emmeline’s time and thoughts. She was good-natured, and her 
skilful fingers were ever at Emmeline’s service. Plain work had 
never been to Annette’s taste, she had left that to Yerena, but in 
millinery and fancy work she excelled. No one found it difficult to 
get on with Kate. And Kate had her own reasons for making 
friends with Annette. But she did not, to use her own expression, 
“get much change out of her.” Mr. Grey was agreeably surprised 
to find his household so harmonious. He thought Annette im- 
proved, and was touched by her evident fondness for the child. 

“ She is a better mother than I thought,” he remarked to Yerena. 
“It must have cost her something to part with Mara. But I sup- 
pose she was bewitched by her Frenchman. Do you think they 
get on pretty well together?” 

“ Annette is still very fond of her Achille. I don’t think he can 
be unkind to her, but she doesn’t like his going away. ” 

“ Does she think he is making ducks and brakes of her little bit 
of money?” 

“ Oh no, what makes you say that? He is trying to get employ- 
ment as a commis-voyageur. ” 

“ Well, the sort of places Annette talks about are not the sort of 
towns where an English bagman would look for a berth. I should 
not wonder in the winter if he talks about an opening at Monte Car- 
lo, or some such place. You know, when I asked about him I did 
not hear the best of characters.” 

“Poor Annette,” said Yerena, looking distressed, “my father 
thought her quite provided for. ” 

“ Don’t fret yourself about that. She has not asked you for any- 
thing yet, has she?” 

“No, she has not asked me for anything.” Then determined to 
hide nothing more than was absolutely necessary, Yerena went on: 
“But I found that she had left Guines in debt, and she would 
not have got away at all if she had not left your gold necklet with 
her landlady. Annette and I are like sisters, it is nothing for us to 
help each other. And I did not want her to lose your present.” 

‘ ‘ I am glad it has escaped Monsieur Achille so far. I don’t care 
about it, Yerena, but I wish you had told me. Will you promise 
me not to help Annette again without telling me? I don’t want you 
to leave yourself without a five-pound note to spend in charity, which 
is, I believe, your chief luxury. And we need not put money into 
Achille’s pockets if we can help it. You may trust me not to let 
Mara’s mother, or Mara’s little brothers and sisters starve.” Then 
taking her hand, he said kindly, ‘ ‘ I thought we were to have no 
more secrets, Yerena. Why, what a little goose you are!’* he add- 


A\ DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


97 


ed, seeing her look pained. '‘You don’t think I mean to blame 
you.” 

It must always be so. His kind words must be whips. And Ve- 
rena knew that something more than friendship would force her to 
help Annette. She might have to bribe, as her fattier had bribed 
years ago. Annette was her friend, but Annette could not be 
wholly trusted. In the hands of an unscrupulous husband she was 
capable of trading on the fearful power she held. 

“ I wanted to give Annette the things she will want in the spring,” 
said Verena, meekly. 

‘ ‘ By all means, ” replied Mr Grey ; ‘ ' get her what you like, and 
send me the bill. Anything that is for Annette’s use and benefit I 
shall be pleased for you to give. But, if she ever wants a few hun- 
dreds to set her husband up in business, you had better refer her to 
me. I suppose,” he added, as an after- thought, "that Mara’s things 
are quite out of date.” 

"Oh, that wouldn’t matter,” said Verena; "fashions don’t change 
much in baby clothes, but they were all sold. We led a wandering 
life, and my father said we could not atford to keep things that were 
not wanted.” 

He had said so, but Verena knew that he had put away all relics 
of Mara's babyhood lest they might some day be found hoarded 
among his daughter’s treasures. 

" Where was Mara born?” asked Mr. Grey, by a natural associa- 
tion of ideas. 

"Ask Annette,” said Verena, rather faintly; "we were always 
moving about, but it was somewhere in Belgium.” 

Mr. Grey did ask Annette; and Annette said, "At Lille.” But 
Mara had been born at Ghent, and at 14 Qua! des Moines. 

Verena hated herself for the deceit which had been forced upon 
her by hearing Kate speak of that very house where they had lodged. 
She had told Annette about the picture, and Annette had treated it 
lightly, though she could have thrown a possible light upon the 
story. For Annette remembered that their landlady’s young son 
aspired to fame as an artist, and possessed a certain knack of catch- 
ing likenesses. But Verena had kept herself so closely hidden dur- 
ing their short stay at Ghent that it seemed scarcely possible that 
the boy could have painted anything like a portrait of her. 

The falsehood about Mara’s birthplace was not the only one An- 
nette told on Verena’s behalf. 

"We think your little girl so wonderfully like Mrs. Clifton,” re- 
marked Emmeline one day. 

" Yes, I can see the likeness myself,” replied Annette, " I dare say 
we are related. She told me her mother’s name was Letchnortli, 
and that was my mother’s name, too. It is not a common name. 
But I know very little about my mother’s family, or my father’s 
either, for that matter. We were always poor, and highly unpopu- 
lar with our relatives.” 

‘ ‘ And I don’t think she will be much more popular with this new* 
found relative,” was Mr. Grey’s remark to Verena. "Mrs. Clifton 

7 


98 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


will not jump at a connection with a French bagman, so we need 
not fear having our ties drawn closer that way. ” 

Verena hastened to turn the subject. 

“ What shall we do about Gertie and Bertie?” she asked. 

For Gertie and Bertie’s little romance had, as Kate divined, pro- 
gressed towards a happy conclusion. Bertie on his return from the 
picnic had presented himself to Mrs. Payn in the character of an ac- 
cepted suitor. She had received him with open arms, and the lovers 
enjoyed one evening of improvident delight. They walked on the 
Lees in a happy solitude d deux. Bertie showed the spot where he 
had overheard Kate pressing her sister to marry Wilson. Gertie 
repeated the rest* of the conversation, which she had perhaps better 
have left untold. And they both laughed in a very unfeeling way 
over Wilson’s discomfiture. 

Then Gertie confided her wish at the Wishing- well, which would 
have astonished Bertie very much at the time. 

“For I knew you liked me then,” she said, simply. • 

Bertie reminded her how they had stood together to be photo- 
graphed, but he omitted to recall how he had tried to get in front 
with the cal. Gertie spoke of Verena and her kindness in always 
throwing them together, and the two praised her in concert. She 
was a saint, Bertie thought, but Gertie answered to the description 
in Wordsworth’s well-worn couplet. 

When it was getting late, they crossed West Cliff Gardens, which 
was not exactly a short cut home, and stood for some time in a shady 
nook, which has probably been found out by other couples who 
may have discovered that there is not much cover on the Lees. 
Bertie took the measure of a finger, and next morning he bought a 
diamond ring. 

But here Mr. Grey intervened. As Gertie’s nearest male relative, 
he suggested that the young people should not go too fast. Bertie 
must get his parents’ consent before the engagement could be con- 
sidered an accomplished fact. 

“ But I am of age,” pleaded Bertie, “and we could live on my 
present allowance.” 

“ Which your parents might stop next month if they liked,” said 
Mr. Grey. 

“But they cannot possibly find any fault with Gertie.” 

Mr. Grey thought that Anglo-Indians were rather a worldly gen- 
eration; but he only said, 

“ They might very well find fault with you both for settling ev- 
erything without so much as consulting them. I suppose you have 
not prepared them for this.” 

Bertie could not say that he had. His letters had been full of Vere- 
na. But he appealed to Mrs. Payn. She had gone over to the enemy. 

“James is quite right,” she said; “ of course there can be no real 
engagement till your parents know about it. And I suppose you 
must not be always together.” 

This was hard after she had sanctioned that evening walk on the 
Lees. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


99 


“It must be nearly two months before I can get an answer,” said 
Bertie, in an aggrieved tone. 

“ And then it may be ‘ No,' ” remarked Kate, wickedly. “In the 
mean time, 3 ^ou must not do more than kiss the hem of Gertie’s gar* 
ment, and that only before two or three witnesses. You must never 
stray even so far as the balcony without an escort; and you must 
not offer so much as a bunch of flowers, or ask even a photo.” 

“It is very hard on Bertie, he won’t like it at all,” said Gertie, 
after he had gone away disconsolate, with his diamond ring in his 
pocket. 

“No, he won’t,” replied Kate, “ so much the better. He has had 
it rather too much his own way hitherto. ” 

Bertie had gone to consult Verena, and to ask her to write to his 
parents. He seemed to think that her personal fascination would 
make itself felt even on paper, 

As the best way of helping him (though he might not have thought 
Bo), Verena consulted her husband. 

“What shall we do about Gertie and Bertie — is it any use my 
writing? Of course I must do so if he wishes it, poor boy.” 

“Bertie says that his mother talked of coming to England next 
year,” said Mr. Grey, “suppose you ask her to come to us, then she 
can see Gertie, and judge for herself. ” 

“But you don’t think she will keep the poor things in suspense 
till she comes!” 

“ They might even survive it, if she did.” 

Then, guessing his wife’s thoughts, he added, 

“Ho, Verena, I am not afraid that Bertie will get tired of waiting. 
I dare say Kate may be right. He will grow more earnest. And I 
suppose Gertie may be depended upon. ” 

“Oh yes, I have no fears of Gertie.” 

“Do you then pay her such a bad compliment as to suppose that 
she cannot hold Bertie for a few months without recognized bonds, 
and a right to claim damages?” 

‘ ‘ No, of course not ; but men seem to hate long engagements. 
You know, James, you did not want to wait yourself.” 

“I was not three-and-twenty, unluckily.” 

I “I am very glad 3^011 were not. I like you much better as you 
! are. But Achille was young, and he would not wait either.” 

' “He had probably his own reasons for impatience. I wish I had 
1 been able to counsel a little delay in that matter, ” 

! “You seemed to think it all right for Bertie and Gertie to fall in 
I love.” 

1 “Yes; but I did not expect that in a few’ weeks the young people 
I would announce their engagement, together with their intention of 
being married in the spring. I was called, anyhow, before I pro- 
posed to take a wife, was I not?” 

“But I am sure you will do what you can for them. Could you 
J not write? Bertie’s parents will think more of you than of me.” 

I “I had already proposed to myself to wTite.” 

!| So three letters were sent to India, and perhaps of the three Mr. 


100 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Grey’s carried most weight, and sufficed to turn the scale in favor 
of Bertie’s wishes. 

In spite of Kate’s vigilance, the lovers found opportunities of re- 
newing their vows, and Bertie began to think of reading hard, while 
Gertie turned her thoughts towards household duties. 

“ I shall take lessons in cooking at South Kensington directly we 
get home,” she announced. 

“Don’t discourage her,” said Kate to her mother, who had ex- 
pressed a doubt as to whether people cared to cook their own din- 
ners in India. “A little hard work will be the finest thing for her. 
Let her go through the whole course, pots and pans and scrubbing, 
and all the rest of it. Bessie King used to come home aching all 
over. A splendid antidote to fond regrets.” 

Gertie was soon able to commence her labors. She and her moth- 
er had been the first to come down to Folkestone, and they were the 
first to leave. Bertie, too, found that he could not afford to waste 
any more time in holiday-making. 

“And so I must go too,” said Kate; “ mother is not quite equal to 
grappling with Gertie, and Bertie would get completely out of hand 
without me.” 

“ Well, I shall have Annette,” remarked Emmeline; “ James and 
Yerena are never any company.” 

“Except for each other,” said Mr. Grey, laughing; then, turning 
to Annette, he went on, “I am afraid we have not done much to 
amuse you since you came. We have been full of our own troubles. 
But now that Yerena is well, and our lovers are going to take them- 
selves off, we must begin to enjoy ourselves.” 

“You wanted to see Canterbury, Annette,” observed Yerena. 
“We might drive over there one day. I wish we were near enough 
to go on Sunday.” 

“Well, it is rather a long walk to church certainly,” said Mr. 
Grey, “but we could go on Saturday, and stay over the Sunday. 
How would that suit you?” 

Yerena hesitated for a moment. It meant two nights away from 
Mara. But she told herself that she must not be silly, and declared 
that it would be the best plan. 

Annette liked any change, and so usually did Emmeline. But on 
this occasion she announced her intention of staying at home, on 
the plea that she had seen Canterbury hundreds of times, and liked 
the Sundays at Folkestone. 

“Is it the very high curate?” asked Kate, “or is it poor Mr. Wil- 
son, who will have lost both Gertie and Annette?” 

“lam not always thinking of lovers, like you,” retorted Emme- 
line, not altogether displeased. 

“Well, do as you please,” said her brother; then, turning to the 
others, he added, “ I suppose you would both like to take Mara.” 

Annette replied, very readily, 

“ Of course, I should like to take her. During the short time that 
I am with you, I like to see as much of my little girl as possible.” 

I hope you don’t mean to make your visit very short,” said Mr. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


101 


Grey; “we have been counting on having you with us in London as 
well as here/’ 

This was just what Annette wanted, as Achille held out no hopes 
of a speedy return. 

“I should like it very much,” she said; “ only I must be ready to 
leave you at short notice if Achille wants me.” 

“What shall we do if Achille wants to fetch her?” asked Yerena, 
when Annette had gone out to meet Mara. 

“Well, we must let him come, though we need not press him to 
stay,” replied Mr. Grey; “ but I don’t think he will want to seek us 
just yet. He is more likely to use his wife as a tool. That is why 
I don’t want you to have any secrets with Annette.” 

“You have not much confidence in poor Annette, James.” 

“ Neither have you, my dear child, if you could bring yourself to 
own as much. But you are wrong if you suppose me likely to be 
hard on Annette. I have always found her kind and pleasant; I see 
a good deal in her to like ; and I only hope for her own sake that we 
may not have some day to protect her against her husband. But I 
don’t think this partial desertion after a few months of marriage 
looks well.” 

“ Perhaps he had better desert her altogether, if he is so bad as 
you think.” 

“I am afraid she would not like that herself, else the arrangement 
might have its advantages. We could easily keep Annette in com- 
fort, if there were no husband to make occasional descents upon 
her.” 

“ She ought to have enough to keep her in comfort now.” 

“I think we had better look upon her little fortune as non-ex- 
istent. At least it will soon come to that. ” 

“If Achille is what you think, I hope that Annette may never 
find it out.” 

“She would not suffer as you would, if she did. Annette has 
misgivings already, yet she enjoys any little pleasure as heartily as 
Mara does. I doubt whether it is in the power of man to make her 
life so unhappy but what we could brighten it for some months of 
the year, at least.” 

“ I can’t understand a nature like that,” said Yerena. 

Mr. Grey laughed. 

“I don’t suppose you can. Nothing but age and experience can 
make us understand natures quite unlike our own. You were in 
great trouble when I first knew you, my poor child, and in still 
worse trouble when I married you. It was in vain I tried to amuse 
you with toys and vanities, such as I thought women loved. You 
tried hard to seem pleased, yet I saw that you cared for none of these 
things, and that you were not happy enough to be amused. And 
for months I felt it quite a triumph to win a real smile from you. 
You thought that you could never be happy again, my Yerena. But 
time works wonders, and some day my wife will be as bright and 
happy as other girls of her age.” 

“Never,” thought poor Yerena. She laid her hand on her hus- 


102 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


band’s arm with the gentle touch which had grown so much more 
tender of late, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes as she re- 
marked, 

“What a remarkably disagreeable bride I must have been!” 

Mr. Grey was giving his answer in silence, when Kate happened 
to come in. 

“Well, really,” she exclaimed, “I thought when people had been 
married six months — You are not Gertie and Bertie.” 

“ So you can’t scold us,” remarked Mr. Grey. 

“Yeena, Yeena,” shouted a little voice, as Mara made one rush 
up the stairs and into Yerena’s arms. “ Maman says that I am to 
go to Canterbury, and sleep at the hotel!” 

There was a note of interrogation in the child’s voice; she could 
not quite count on such joys till Yerena gave her assurance. Even 
Mara had found out that Annette was not always trustworthy. 

“Must we take Lisette?” she asked next. “Maman says I may 
sleep with her. ” 

“ I think we must take Lisette,” said Mr. Grey. 

“ I dare say Lisette will enjoy it too,” added Yerena, appealing to 
Mara’s better nature. 

“ Oh yes, may I tell her,” asked Mara, eagerly slipping off Yerena’s 
knee, and making for the door. In a few minutes she returned with 
her kitten in her arms. ‘ ‘ I wish we could take kitty, ” she remarked. 

Even Yerena did not consider this feasible. 

“You will have to leave kitty behind you altogether soon,” said 
Emmeline. 

Mara looked dismayed for an instant as she clasped her kitten 
closer. Then she turned two appealing yet confident eyes towards 
Yerena. 

“Why shouldn’t we take the kitten home?” asked Yerena; “we 
can carry it quite well in a basket. ” 

“But you can’t fill the house with cats,” cried Emmeline. 
“There’s the cat you bought at Whiteley’s, and the stray cat you 
took out of the square, and this one will make three. You will soon 
be like that woman who is always being summoned, if you go on at 
this rate.” 

Emmeline spoke with asperity. She disliked cats, and had kept 
her house free from them till Yerena came. 

“I think the house is big enough for three cats, but perhaps we 
had better not add any more to our family,” said Mr. Grey. 

“But I may take kitty home,” cried Mara, recognizing a still 
higher authority than Yerena’s. Being reassured on this point, she 
took Mr. Grey’s hand. “Tell me the story of Thomas ^ Becket,” 
she said, persuasively. 

Annette had already given her a slight outline, but no one told 
stories from history like Uncle James. 

“If your little girl is spoiled,” said Emmeline, turning to Annette, 
“it will be Yerena’s fault; she indulges her in every whim and 
fancy.” 

“I think some one else is quite as indulgent,” replied Annette, 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


103 


turning a smiling and grateful look on Mr, Grey, who was already 
deep in Mara’s historical romance. 

“ Such nonsense about the cat,” said Emmeline, who always found 
Annette much more reasonable than Verena. “Mara would be 
quite content to leave her behind, if Yerena took it as a matter of 
course.” 

“ Oh yes, I dare say Mara will forget all about the kitten at Can- 
terbury,” said Annette, lightly. 

“Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?” said Mr. Grey, 
dramatically, as he approached the climax of his narrative. 

“Will no one rid me of this troublesome kitten?” thought Em- 
meline, impatiently. 

Unluckily she repeated the remark aloud when she found herself 
in sole possession of the establishment. And she backed her sug- 
gestion by the offer of half a crown. This proved a temptation to 
the “boots.” 

There was no kitten when the family returned. Emmeline began 
to feel some compunction when she heard Mara going up and down 
the house, calling “ Kitty, kitty,” in vain. Verena soothed the child 
by assurances that cats often strayed; they would be sure to find 
kitty to-morrow. And so Mara was got to bed. 

Emmeline felt uneasy at the disturbance that was raised. She 
gave her accomplice five shillings to keep the secret. She would 
have given a great deal more to undo the deed. But murder will 
out, even the murder of a kitten. Yerena’s strenuous efforts to re- 
cover the lost one induced the woman of the house to tell her that it 
was no good. The kitten had, by some unlucky mistake, been made 
away with. Yerena was horror-struck. 

“Don’t tell Mara,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Let her 
think the kitten is lost, or anything! It would be dreadful for her 
to know that the poor thing died a violent death.” 

“ I should have thought it might be better than to let her go on 
hoping in vain,” said Mr. Grey. 

“ No, ” cried Y ereua, ‘ ‘ she will forget by degrees. But this would 
be a sudden shock. It would have broken my heart when I was a 
child.” 

It went pretty near to breaking Mara’s. Before Yerena could give 
a caution, Lisette had found out the truth and told it indignantly to 
her little charge. 

“My kitty is drowned, my dear kitty is drowned!” sobbed Mara, 
clinging to Yerena in a paroxysm of grief. 

Yerena was the only person she turned to. She had seemed fond 
enough of her maman, as she called Annette, in her happiness, but 
she did not care to go to her in her trouble. It was something more 
than the grief of losing her pet. A 'Sense of suffering and cruelty had 
come into Mara’s little world, which had hitherto held nothing but 
happiness and love. 

While Mara wept, and Yerena consoled her with the true conso- 
lation of sympathy, Mr. Grey had found out the facts of the case, 
and set himself to screen the offender. He felt very angry with Em- 


104 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


meline, but knew that she was sufficiently punished. She had never 
meant to be cruel to Mara. An overbearing temper, and a great 
want of imagination, had made her do this unkind thing without 
counting the cost. She was as much shocked as any one at the re- 
sult. Had not the child’s own mother told her that Mara would for- 
get all about the kitten at Canterbury? It cut Emmeline to the 
heart to see merry little Mara crying and refusing to be comforted. 
She had really a kindly feeling towards the child ; she felt quite ten- 
derly towards her after this. In truth, the recollection of this little 
incident never ceased to give Emmeline a remorseful pang through 
all her armor of self-satisfaction. It would have been dreadful to 
stand confessed as the author of Mara’s calamity. But from such a. 
fate her brother contrived to shield her. Yerena might suspect that 
some careless word of Emmeline’s had been construed too literally, 
but she would never know of that half-crown which had changed 
hands. And Mara would never associate Aunt Emmie with the one 
bitter mi^ortune of her happy life. 

“ Our poor little Mara is more sensitive than I thought,” said Mr. 
Grey, half-regretfully, to his wife; “her grief is almost morbid. For 
the first time she reminds me of you. ” 

Yerena had felt it too. Her child had taken something of her 
own nature. Not a happy nature, as she often told herself. Mara 
seemed always bright and happy, but they had seen her only in the 
sunshine of life. She might not be fit to bear its storms. But Ye- 
rena thought how she had guarded her from one storm hitherto, and 
prayed that it might never break over her head. 

Childish griefs do not last forever. When the time came to leave 
Folkestone, Mara was delighted at tlie bustle of moving. But she 
had not forgotten her kitten. 

“ Yeena,” she said suddenly, as they took their farewell look at 
the sea from the window of the railway -carriage, “does it hurt 
much to be drowned?” 

“ No, darling, ” replied Yerena, as confidently as if she had under- 
gone the experience several times; “it is a very painless death.” 

Mara said no more. But she was not quite consoled even when 
they found that a kitten had been born in their absence, and that the 
servants had kept it, thinking it would please “ little Miss Mara.” 
And Emmeline said nothing about the lady and her cats this time. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

The weeks she spent in London were very happy ones for An- 
nette. Driving about, shopping and sight-seeing all day, going to 
theatres and dinner-parties in the evening, she had a constant sense 
of enjoying life and spending money such as she had never known, 
except perhaps during the few weeks of her honey -moon with 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


105 


Achille. There was an autumn session this year, and London was 
rather gayer than is usual in November. 

“You must stay with us some day in the season,” said Mr. Grey; 
“we can give you some dances then.” 

An occasional dance at a foreign Uahlissement represented An- 
nette’s sole acquaintance with such gayeties. She had been a frisky 
girl, and was now a frisky matron, but life had not offered her much 
scope for enjoyment. A childhood spent at a cheap French school, 
a girlhood as nursery governess, a dull married life with a husband 
who had kept a pretty tight hand over her till the reins were slip- 
ping from his grasp — such had been Annette’s past. Her future of- 
fered materials for more or less neglect, privation, and disappoint- 
ment, Mr. Grey thought. He felt sorry for the poor girl. Annette 
was nearly thirty, but she still looked a girl, and she seemed one in 
his eyes. 

Kate complained that Heaven had sent Yerena biscuits, but no 
teeth. Poor Annette had a fine set of teeth, but no biscuits. She 
enjoyed everything except monotony. Every one liked her. Ye- 
rena found no difficulty in getting invitations for Annette. 

“ Are you becoming tired of having her?” she would ask her hus- 
band sometimes. 

“No, certainly not,” he would reply, “but I should like Achille 
to recognize his responsibilities some day.” 

Annette was quite willing to go back to her husband, but she did 
not want to be sent back to solitude at Guines or any other dull 
place. She worried Achille a good deal before he consented to re- 
ceive her at Paris, where he expected to find himself early in the 
year. So Annette stayed over Christmas at Russell Square, and Mr. 
Grey was glad to have her with them, thinking that Yerena would 
like it. Besides, Christmas was the time for children’s parties, and 
it seemed only fair that Annette should take a part in Mara’s festivi- 
ties. This was Mara’s first season ; children’s parties and panto- 
mimes were joys unknown to her. Yerena and Annette laid their 
heads together in consultation over her toilets. 

“We want her to be the prettiest dressed child, as well as the pret- 
tiest child, wherever she goes,” said Annette, laughingly, to Mr. Grey. 

“Don’t put such ideas into her head, that’s all,” he replied; “as 
for you two I don’t know which is the vainer about Mara. Ye- 
rena, I believe, though she hides her feelings the/best.” 

“Every one is not so sharp as your husband, Yerena,” said An- 
nette, when they were alone, “but I often think you want your 
poor father here.” 

Yerena took the hint. She knew that she could scarcely hide a 
mother’s fond pride. She longed painfully to own her beautiful, 
promising darling. She saw other mothers putting forward children 
with not half her child’s claims to admiration, while she had to draw 
back and let Annette enjoy the glory of being mother to Mara. And 
she sometimes thought that Annette played her part too well. If it 
had not been for the delight of watching Mara’s enjoyments, the 
children’s parties would have brought unmitigated pain to Yerena. 


106 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


'‘If it were not such early days, I should think you were pining 
for children, Verena,” said Kate, one day. 

“Why?” asked Verena. It was the last thing she desired. She 
wanted no other child to supplant Mara in her husband’s affection, 
no child to call her by the name forbidden forever to Mara’s lips. 

“ You looked so enviously at Mrs. Langley when she was show- 
ing off her baby, ” replied Kate. 

Annette gave Verena one quick glance which did not quite show 
her usual discretion. Then turning to Kate, she said, carelessly, 

“Verena is so fond of children. I should like to see her with 
one of her own.” 

“Oh don’t,” said Kate. “Verena makes such a fuss over your 
child, the idea of Verena with one of her own is too awful. I have 
always thought it a kind provision of nature that baby-lovers are not 
usually mothers of large families. There is Lady Copeland, for in- 
stance: I dare say she makes a good-enough mother to her large 
family, but she told me she never cared to look at a child till she 
had one of her own. Now, Bessie King, who can scarcely pass a 
child in the street without stopping it, has no children.” 

“lam not a baby -lover,” remar 1^ Annette; “I never was.” 

“ No,” replied Kate, “ and, if you^on’t be too angry with me for 
saying it, Verena is a great deal fonder of your child than you are 
yourself.” Kate kept her sharp eyes open as she said this, but 
no looks were exchanged, and she ran on lightly; “One can’t lay 
down rules. There is my cousin Emma, who fell down and wor- 
shipped a solitary child at the age of fort}^ and accounts for her 
somewhat excessive fondness on the ground that she never wasted 
love on other people’s children.” 

The evening papers were brought in, and Verena took one up. 
Kate took another. 

“No news of the war,” she remarked; then, running her eye 
down the news, she suddenly exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Street Cobham—wasn’t 
that the place James meant to stand for?” 

“Yes,” replied Verena, scarcely looking up from her paper. 

“Then what do they mean by putting up ‘ Mr. Lea (C.)?’” cried 
Kate, indignantly. 

“Mr. Lea is a local man, who wants to stand,” said Verena: “he 
might have given way, but James would not allow pressure to be 
put on.” 

“But I thought this was such a safe seat.” 

“So it is.” 

“Oh, why then is James so foolish as to give it up?” 

“ He does not mean to try for a seat at all.” 

Kate almost gasped. 

“Verena, this is your work,” she cried. 

“Yes, it is,” replied Verena; “but you must always remember 
that J ames did not care to go in for these things before he married 
me.” 

“How foolish you are,” cried Kate, angrily; “you have the ball 
at your feet. ” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


10 ^ 


‘^And there it may stay. You won’t bring me round to your^ 
way of thinking, Kate.” 

“ No, you are as obstinate as a mule — I know that.” 

“As firm as a rock sounds better,” said Verena, laughing. “I am 
sorry if you are disappointed at not being cousin to the Lord Chan- 
cellor, but I cannot allow that I have either made or marred James’s 
career. He is just where he was before I came on the scene.” 

“No, indeed he is not; he might have married a wife who would* 
have helped him on if he had not married you.” 

“ Ah, so he might; I never thought of that. ” 

Verena’s tone was provoking, but Kate had already gone nearer 
to losing her temper than she intended. 

‘ ‘ If j^ou were not the handsomest and cleverest woman in the 
world, I shouldn’t be so angry with you,” she said, more good-humor- 
edly. 

“But you won’t even flatter me into doing what you want. I 
have no vocation for it.” 

“1 suppose you will be presented all the same.” 

“No, I am not going to be presented.” 

“Why not?” 

“There is no need for it now.” 

“You never wanted to be presented, that’s the truth.” 

“ No, I never did.” 

“You ought to be a country curate’s wife.” 

“Quite true, that life would suit me exactly.” 

“ I suppose you mean to live in this house all your life.” 

“No, I often want to be nearer the parks. We shall probably 
move next year, if not this. And we think of taking a little house 
in the country as well.” 

“Your town house won’t see much of you then.” 

“ Oh yes, it will. I have no intention of deserting my husband.” 

I “You will do very well without your husband if you have Mara.” 
Kate had made Verena angry at last. 

‘ ‘ That is not true, ” she said ; ‘ ‘ you have no right to say such things. 

I cannot think what makes you so disagreeable to-day.” 

“What, quarrelling,” said Emmeline, coming in just in time to 
hear the last words. ‘ ‘ I thought you never quarrelled with any one 
but me, Verena.” 

“You will quarrel with Verena too, when I tell you,” said Kate. 
“ She has persuaded James to give up all his ideas of public life, 
and to take her a house in the country, where she can play with 
Mara, and visit poor people all day long.” 

“Then I shall keep James’s house in town, ’’"said Emmeline, very 
contentedly; “he must have a house in town, you know.” 

“ I am not going to live in the country, Emmeline,” said Verena; 
“ it is all Kate’s nonsense. I mean to live with James, wherever he 
may be. Bujt we think of taking a house in the country to run down 
to occasionally.” 

“Well, you seem to have made all your arrangements without 
consulting me,” said Emmeline. 


108 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“You had better come and live with us,” said Kate. “ I suppose 
mother will be losing one daughter soon.” 

“It doesn’t look much like it,” replied Emmeline; “ they have not 
answered Bertie’s letter yet.” 

“No; and, because they haven’t written by the first mail, Gertie 
and Bertie are in despair. But they would have written fast enough 
to forbid the match. They must be at least considering it. I nev- 
er supposed that any one would jump at an alliance with the wealthy 
house of Payn. ” 

“ It will make no difference to you, Emmeline, if we have a house 
in the country,” said Verena; “but it is all in the air at present. 
Kate is angry because she finds that some one else is going to stand 
for Street Cobham, and that I am not going to the Drawing-room.” 

“ Well, I wasn’t going to the Drawing-room, or Kate either. I 
don’t see that it ma&s much difference to us. And elections cost a 
lot of money. Besides, Mr. King told me that James would have to 
give up a good deal of good paying business if he went into Par- 
liament.” 

“But he will be much better off as Lord Chancellor,” cried Kate. 

“Mr. King says that the Conservatives are not likely to be in long 
enough for him to be Lord Chancellor, and they may not come in at 
all.” 

“Oh, bother Mr. King,” cried Kate; “what does he know about 
politics?” 

“As much as you do, I dare say,” replied Emmeline, placidly. 
“ I don’t see that it would be all gain for James to get into Parlia- 
ment.” 

Verena had found an unexpected ally. 

“Wife and sister are both against you, Kate,” she said, gayly. 

“ But I won’t live in the country,” remarked Emmeline. “ If you 
think of moving, Verena, I shall ask James to give me an allow- 
ance, and let me find a home of my own. You and I never did sta- 
ble our horses very well together. I don’t say it is all your fault,” 
she added, magnanimously. 

Verena could scarcely conceal her delight. Emmeline had been 
a thorn in her side from the beginning, but she had never ventured 
to hope that Emmeline would take herself off. It seemed too good 
to be true. Yet she felt some compunction. 

.“I should be very sorry to think that I had made you uncomfort- 
able, Emmeline,” she said, “and I hope that you will not decide on 
anything in a hurry.” 

“Well, you are not the pleasantest of companions,” began Emme- 
line. 

“Gey ill to live with, like Carlyle, ” said Kate, recovering from 
her first feeling of blank astonishment. “ But you seem to have laid 
your plans, Emmeline. Pray, who is to share this home of your 
own?” 

“ I am not bound to tell my plans, especially before they are quite 
formed, ’’replied Emmeline. 

“You never lay plans for yourself, ’’said Kate, who had not her 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


109 


usual control over her temper to-day; “some one must have put 
them into your head. Oh, I know,” she cried, triumphantly; “it is 
the Kings; you have been always with them latel3^ They want to 
take a larger house, and you are going to join them. But I don’t 
think James will quite see your living with the Kings.” 

“You have no business to make guesses,” said Emmeline. 

But Kate saw that she was right. Everything seemed going 
against her. Emmeline would be of no use if she lived with the 
Kings. James was giving up all his chances of a brilliant career, 
and falling completely under the influence of his wife, who had her 
own reasons for preferring obscurity. 

“Well, good-by, you disappointing people,” she said, taking up 
her gloves and muff. “Bid Annette good-by for me.” For""An- 
nette had retired at the first signs of unpleasantness. 

“ Can’t you stay to dinner?” asked Verena, who felt that they were 
parting with less kindness than usual. 

“ I must go home to-day; I shall be out to-morrow,” replied Kate. 
‘ ‘ I forgot to tell you. Mrs. Clifton has asked me to a dinner-party. 
Oh, you need not open your eyes, Verena, it wasn’t a proper invita- 
tion. She asked me to fill up a place when some one else failed. 
I only heard of it this morning.” 

Verena always felt excited and uneasy at any mention of Mrs. Clif- 
ton. She had managed to evade her hitherto, but this invitation to 
Kate seemed to threaten a renewal of the acquaintance. Verena had 
no reason to suppose that Courtenay was in London, yet she pict- 
ured the possibility of Kate’s meeting him. She felt half inclined 
to go to the Payns the day after the dinner-party, but stayed at home 
instead, thinking that perhaps Kate would come to tell her news. Her 
heart beat fast when Kate came in, evidently in her liveliest mood. 

“ What, alone, Verena! I am so glad; I have lots to tell you.” 

Kate had come prepared with an apology, in case Verena’s man- 
ner showed any offence ; but finding her the same as usual, she thought 
best to let well alone. 

“Emmeline and Annette have taken Mara to Madame Tussaud’s,” 
said Verena. “ I have been having a sitting this morning, and it al- 
ways tires me. Would you like to go next time and see how my 
portrait is getting on?” 

“ Very much. I suppose it will be finished soon. Shall you have 
it home before it goes to the Exhibition?” 

“ I suppose not,” said Verena, wearily. She had not wanted to 
be painted, but she could not give any good reason for refusing. 
Her husband had tried to bribe her by offering to have Mara painted 
with her, but this would have been worse still. She had grown very 
chary of appearing in public with Mara since she had met Courte- 
nay, and she felt that it would never do for her child to be exhibit- 
ed with her on the walls of the Academy. 

“Mr. Clifton says you ought to be modelled instead of painted; 
you are one of the few people who could stand it.” 

“I did propose to be modelled, but James would have me paint- 
ed first,” Verena had made her suggestion thinking th^t the sculpt- 


110 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


ure department attracted less general attention than the rest of the 
Exhibition. 

“ Oh yes, I know, he thought of your hair,” cried Kate. 

“You have not told me anything about your dinner-party.” 

“ Ko, but I have lots to tell you all the same. What do you think, 
Verena? Wonders will never cease. I have made a conquest. Now, 
don’t look incredulous. I am not Emmeline, and I don’t think I 
ever claimed one before.” 

“ I don’t feel at all incredulous.” 

“ Oh yes, I know; you are thinking, ‘ Some one has for once treat- 
ed this ugly little woman with common courtesy, and she fancies he 
has fallen in love with her.’ I have heard you say something like 
that of Emmeline.” 

“No, indeed, Kate — you said it yourself. You have a way of 
making your friends act as mouthpieces for your own words. It 
would be just like you to tell Emmeline I said that.” 

This was rather a home-thrust; but Verena said it good-humored- 
ly, and Kate did not want to take offence. 

“Did you ever hear of Mr. Farquhar?” asked Kate, suddenly. 

“ No, never.” 

“ Then you ought to, for he is a barrister, only I don’t think he 
has any practice. He doesn’t seem to want it, luckily.” 

“ I suppose you met him at the Cliftons.” 

“ Yes, he took me in to dinner.” 

“And what is he like?” 

“Tall, not ugly, of suitable age, and— Verena, I fear that herein 
lies the secret of my success — stone-blind. ” 

“ Oh, how shocking!” 

“Not at all. He wouldn’t have looked at me if he could.” 

“He is well off, you say.” 

“Yes, I shouldn’t have looked at him if he wasn’t.” 

“Did he tell you so?” 

“No, but Mrs. Clifton did, and I gathered it from his conversation. 
You must know that this was not our first meeting. Some weeks 
ago we travelled together in the Underground all the way from 
King’s Cross to Bays water. When I got in, he apologized for not 
picking up a parcel I dropped. Then, seeing he was blind, I began 
reading the broadsheets aloud, and so we got into a lively discussion. 
I knew him again, of course, but I never thought he would recognize 
me. Directly I opened my lips, however, he said, ‘You are the 
young lady I met in the Underground Railway; I never forget k 
voice.’ And he said something pretty about my voice.” 

“ You have a charming voice, Kate. It is something like James’s.” 

‘ ‘ So Mr. Farquhar said. ‘ I see now where you get your politics 
from,’ he added; ‘I knew they were all second-hand. You have 
never thought for yourself on these matters. ’ And then he took up 
our discussion just where we had left it off.” 

“Is he a Liberal?” cried Verena, horrified. 

“Oh, worse than that; he is awfully advanced. Religion of the 
future, and all that sort of thing.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Ill 


“ Then I’m sure you could never like him.” 

“Oh yes, I have no prejudices. He is quite right; I haven’t any 
real politics, or any real religion either. I am not what you call 
spiritually-minded. I was born a Primitive Methodist ; I might die 
a Buddhist if I met a rich Chinaman. I always sympathize with 
the Vicar of Bray. But you are well up in these things. I want 
you to coach me in Mr. Farquhar’s particular creed.” 

“ Perhaps I had better know his creed first.” 

“Oh, what is Fitz-Henry, and what does he write about in the 
Fortnightly V 

“He is a Positivist.” 

“Ah, that’s it. Mr. Farquhar asked if I ever read his articles. It 
gives me a headache only to look at the outside of Fortnightly. 
And as for the Nineteenth Century ! Mr. Farquhar sometimes writes 
in that himself.” 

Verena looked interested. 

“He must be clever,” she remarked. 

“ Very, I should think, in a stodgy sort of way. But tell me a 
little about the Positivists. Their founder was Comte. I know that 
. much. You laughed at me for confusing Comte with Kant the first 
time we met; that’s why I looked it up.” 

“ It is the religion of Humanity.” 

‘ ‘ All right ; I’ll tell Mr. Farquhar I’m a Humanitarian. Or per- 
haps it might be better to let him convert me. At present I don’t 
care a fig for humanity, and I hate my fellow-creatures unless they 
amuse me.” 

“I can lend you a book, if you really want to get up the subject.” 

“ I prefer oral tradition. But first, Verena, I want you to get me 
an invitation to Mrs. Drummond’s silver wedding.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think I can. I hate asking favors of people.” 

“Well, I told Mr. Farquhar I was going. He wanted to know if 
I visited this person or that, till at last I caught at a name I knew, 
counting on you to make my words good. Do be good-natured and 
pocket your pride for once, Verena. This is my first chance, and it 
may be my last.” 

“But I don’t think it at all a nice chance for you.” 

“How can you tell? Adversity may be good for some people, 
but I have always felt that prosperity was the right medicine for me. 
I have always wanted the good things' of this world; I shall be a 
higher and more humane being if I can get them.” Kate threw a 
great earnestness into her voice, as she pronounced these words. 
“There now,” she added, “that’s Comtist, or at least Comtish, for 
‘ I want it.’ I know you’ll get me the invitation, and another thing 
— I want you to cultivate the Cliftons a little.” 

“I can’t do "that. James wouldn’t let me if I wished. Only I 
don’t.” 

“Don’t tell me about James. As if he didn’t let you do anything 
you really want. It’s a nasty cowardly way wives have of getting 
behind a husband, and pretending he won’t let them do this, that, or 
the other, when they can really twist the poor man round their little 


112 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


finger. And a very proper state of things too,” Kate added, with a 
view to the future. 

“Don’t tell Emmeline,” she exclaimed, as they heard the others 
returning. 

Verena ran out to meet Mara, but she caught Emmeline’s first 
question. 

“Was Mr. Courtenay at the dinner-party?” 

And Kate answered, 

“No.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

“You must be careful with Kate; she is very sharp, and I think 
she suspects something,” said Annette. It was the last night of her 
visit, and Verena had come into her room for a final gossip. 

Verena thought that Kate was full of her own affairs just now. 
Something else was weighing much more on her mind. 

‘ ‘ Annette, ” she said, looking her friend well in the face, ‘ ‘ you have 
never told Achille anything about Mara?” 

“Oh no,” cried Annette, “he scarcely ever talks of Mara. He 
was glad enough to get rid of her. ” 

“Your child may remind him. Promise me never, under any 
circumstances, to tell him.” 

“ I promise you I never will. Not that it would hurt you if 1 did. 
Achille is the kindest creature in the world.” 

“ Defend me from the tender mercies of Achille,” thought Verena. 
Then she took up a Bible that was lying on the table. Annette 
could scarcely be called religious, but Verena knew that she was 
superstitious. 

“Will you mind taking your oath ?” she asked. 

Annette drew back. 

“Oh no, Verena; your father made me take an oath years ago, 
and I felt that all sorts of horrible things would happen to me if I 
broke it. He reminded me of it almost at the last. ” 

‘ ‘ My father is not here to remind you now. ” 

“No, but he is quite capable of coming back to frighten me if I 
disobeyed him. Your father was a terrible man, Verena! I beg 
pardon, but you can’t expect one to want him back now. And no 
one wants ghosts, ’’she added. 

“I am so afraid of your letting it slip out. I know you would 
not hurt me willingly.” 

‘ ‘ I would not hurt you for the world, but a dozen oaths could not 
bind me more than the one I have taken.” 

Annette left early next morning. The whole family assembled at 
Charing Cross. Bertie was there with Gertie, who had grown rath- 
er thin and pale of late. They said that her work at the School of 
Cookery had been too hard for her. She wore Bertie’s diamond 
ring on her finger now ; for his parents had at last given a somewhat 
grudging consent to the engagement. But there was to be no mar- 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


113 


riage for the young people at present. Mara did not half like losing 
her maman. She was only consoled by promises of a speedy re- 
turn. But, when Annette proposed to take “Sister Veena” away 
with her, Mara clung passionately to Verena’s hand, and the joke 
was evidently too cruel to be persisted in. 

“ Good-by, ” cried Annette, as the train began to move; “I have 
enjoyed myself immensely. I could not bear to leave you all if I 
were not going to Achille.” 

Annette was all smiles and tears, but the smiles prevailed when 
she found herself alone. There was a sense of well-being about her. 
She was travelling first-class, with obsequious guards and porters to 
look after her and after the well-filled boxes which had taken the 
place of the little portmanteau which she had brought from Guines. 
These things had a great charm for Annette. With a light heart 
and a full purse she went back to her husband. She had forgotten 
all about his neglect. She went back to little dinners in the Palais 
Royal, and theatres, and the gay life they both lived. In a. few 
weeks the money would begin to run short. Then Achille would 
propose an application to Mrs. Grey. But Annette would let some 
of her pretty dresses and trinkets go first. 

“ Now you have got rid of Annette, it will be easy to get me an 
invitation to Mrs. Drummond’s,” said Kate, as she left the station 
with Verena. 

“You had better come and stay with us to give me an excuse for 
asking.” 

“ Oh, I will come with pleasure; I am off duty now,” with a glance 
at the lovers. 

“Come to us next Monday, then.” 

The party was on the 11th of February, but Mr. Farquhar contrived 
to meet Kate once before that. Mrs. Clifton was always at home 
on Tuesdays, and they met at her house. 

“ I believe you arranged it,” said Verena. 

‘ ‘ No, he went every Tuesday till I came. I told you he was in 
earnest. He is a widower. I think they are more likely to marry 
than old bachelors.” 

“In spite of my own experience,” remarked Verena. 

“He has two boys at school,” continued Kate. “No girls, I am 
thankful to say.” 

Kate found an excuse for going home a few days before the 
party. 

“I must go and play propriety to those troublesome young peo- 
ple,” she told Verena. “Bertie has got tickets for the Criterion, and 
they can’t go alone. As for mother, she would think her soul lost 
if she only put her head inside a theatre.” 

But Kate had her own reasons for preferring home just now. She 
could not carry on her acquaintance with Mrs. Clifton so well from 
Verena’s house, since Verena refused to help her. 

“I shall have Mrs. Clifton calling on me here,” she remarked to 
Emmeline, “and that would never do, especially since James has 
taken up Verena’s fad about her.” 

8 


114 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“I can’t think why, ” returned Emmeline; “he won’t let me call 
on Mrs. Clifton, or I should be going to her Tuesdays with you. 
And I will go when I am my own mistress.” 

Kate postponed her return till the afternoon of the 11th. She 
came back in high spirits. 

“ Well, Verena, how has the velvet turned out?” was her first 
question. 

“Oh, it is not at all what I meant,” said Yerena, laughing. “I 
wanted a quiet brown velvet, and this is a gorgeous affair, all cloth 
of gold in front. I shall not take you to the dressruiaker’s again, 
Kate.” 

“Why, I only suggested something becoming and striking, re- 
gardless of expense. I did certainly give a hint that you had a taste 
for the dowdy, while your husband liked you to go in gorgeous at- 
tire. It was a reversal of the natural order of things, Madame Roze 
thought.” 

“Well, I hope James may like it, but I am sure it is not a bit like 
what he expects. ” 

“ Not a bit like the velvet dresses his mother used to wear,” cried 
Kate. “No, I should hope not.” 

“ The dress won’t suit Yerena,” remarked Emmeline, “there is too 
much yellow about it.” 

“ Oh, that is an exploded notion,” cried Kate ; “ some yellows are 
very becoming to fair people, and they are sure to have chosen the 
right shade for Yerena. How are you going to wear your hair?” 
she asked, turning again to Yerena. “ I suppose in the usual way; 
it suits you well enough.” 

“They tell me my plaits are coming in again,” replied Yerena. 
“But we are going to try something more elaborate to-night. Lis- 
ette has been taking lessons under Annette.” 

“I have a new dress, Kate,” said Emmeline, who thought that a 
very unnecessary fuss was, being made over Yerena’s toilet. 

“You must show it me after tea. I didn’t want a new dress, 
luckily,” remarked Kate, with an emphasis intelligible only to 
Yerena. 

“Do you think the Cliftons will be there to-night, Kate?” asked 
Yerena, trying to speak carelessly. 

“ I know they will. Mr. Courtenay will be there, too. He is liv- 
ing in London now.” 

Yerena almost let her cup drop. A mist came before her eyes. 
She thought of falling ill, or at least of pleading a headache. But 
she must not run away again ; she had done so once, and it had only 
made him bolder. And, since he was living in London, she must 
make up her mind to see him occasionally. 

Yerena dressed with a sinking heart. She knew that she had nev- 
er looked so well. Her dress was a most artistic combination of 
bronze velvet and pale yellow, embroidered in gold. It might have 
looked heavy and overpowering on a smaller"^ woman, but Yerena 
wore richness, as some one has said of his friend’s learning, “lightly 
like a flower,” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


115 


“You look a great deal more than two-and-twenty, ” was Emme- 
line’s remark, when the others had expressed their admiration. 

Perhaps it was true. Yerena looked a woman, and not a girl. 
Yet she possessed a beauty of coloring which seldom survives girl- 
hood. And though her figure had filled out since her marriage, 
there was still a willowy grace about it which gave the impression 
of slenderness. 

“I am nearly three-and-twenty,” replied Yerena. “But James 
and I have agreed to divide ages; that gives us thirty-six years each. 
Do I look about that, Emmeline?” 

“ Yes, about,” said Emmeline, thinking that Yerena looked quite 
as old as she did herself. 

“ I will not spare you one of my years, Yerena,” said her husband; 
“and you don’t look more than eighteen, whatever Emmeline may 
say.” Then, drawing her aside, he said, anxiously, “ Your eyes are 
too bright, and your cheeks too pink, and your pulse is going at a 
fearful rate. Why can’t you take things more easily? The fellow 
will not dare to annoy you after our last encounter.” For Yerena 
had told her husband that they were to meet Courtenay. 

“What shall I do if Mrs. Clifton comes up to introduce him?” she 
asked, 

“ I think you must just bow, as you would to a stranger. I don’t 
see how you can help yourself.” 

“ I should like you to keep by me the whole evening,” said Yere- 
na, imploringly. 

“ The situation would have its charms, only people would think 
me a jealous old husband. I shouldn’t mind that either,” he added, 
“ if it did not look as if I couldn’t trust my wife. But I shall keep 
my eye on you, though it may be from the other end of the room.” 

“I never knew such people,” said Kate, plaintively, “always 
spooning in corners. You kept him in much better order at first, 
Yerena. Think what he will be when your silver wedding comes, 
if you don’t keep him down now.” 

“ I shall be past seventy before I can hope for a silver wedding,” 
said Mr. Grey. 

“Oh, there’s no — we will say, devotee — like an old devotee,” replied 
Kate. 

The Greys arrived rather late at Mrs. Drummond’s. 

“ Of course to make a sensation,” remarked Mrs. Clifton to her 
brother. 

“ Well,” he replied, “ she has succeeded!” 

Yerena knew that Courtenay was in the room, and felt his eye upon 
her even before she saw him. But her fighting spirit was up now. 
She had never seemed so gay. The fear of being left for a moment 
alone, so that he could approach her, made her try always to keep 
some one, no matter who, chained to her side. She had forgotten 
all about Mr. Farquhar till Kate reminded her. 

“ I’m so glad he can’t see,” she whispered to Yerena, “but he says 
that he wishes he could. He is trying to get introduced to you; I 
don’t choose to do it myself. But do make yourself pleasant to him.” 


116 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Yerena did not find it difficult to make herself pleasant to Mr. 
Farquhar. She thought he talked very well. He kept clear of 
politics and theology with her, and she liked him in spite of her 
prejudices. He spoke at last of Kate, her sweet voice and winning 
manners. 

“ They tell me that Miss Payn is very plain,” he observed. “Is 
that so?” 

“Ho, indeed,” replied Yerena, indignantly, feeling sure that 
'they ’meant Mrs. Clifton. “She has a charming face. It is a 
whim of her own to call herself plain, but I should not expect any 
one else to say it. ” 

Presently Mr. Farquhar offered to get her an ice, and Yerena feared 
to refuse lest he might think she would not trust herself to his 
guidance. She was wondering how he would manage to find the 
ices, when Mrs. Clifton suddenly sat down beside her. 

“My brother,” she said, introducing Courtenay. Yerena bowed 
her head slightly, without looking up. But it seemed like a bad 
dream to find Courtenay bending over her and offering her an ice, 
like any other polite stranger. 

“ My brother met your husband in court to-day,” said Mrs. Clif- 
ton. 

“ Yes, I went in with a friend who had brought an action,” said 
Courtenay, quite easily. “But we had Mr. Grey against us. He 
was rather hard on my friend, I thought. Mr. Grey does not know 
the whole story,” he added, significantly. 

A duller woman than Yerena must have understood him. 

“Perhaps if Mr. Grey knew the whole story he would be much 
harder,” she said; then, in a lower tone, “he may have to know 
it some day.” 

Yerena raised her eyes as she spoke, and met a look of admiration 
which turned her sick with anger and disgust. If her husband had 
only been near. But Courtenay would not have dared to approach 
her then. Mr. Farquhar was returning. She moved to meet him. 

“ I am not going to keep you here any longer,” she said, taking 
his arm ; ‘ ‘ they are beginning to play the piece we both wanted to 
hear.” 

“ What do you think of her, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Clifton. 

“ She is the most wonderful woman I ever met,” he replied, look- 
ing after Yerena with something more than mere admiration. “It 
is too bad of that blind fellow to monopolize her.” 

Kate thought so too. 

‘ ‘ I wanted you to make friends with him, but I did not want you 
to cut me out,” she observed, drawing Yerena aside. Mr. Farquhar 
was quite ready to talk to Kate, and Yerena found her husband and 
told him about Courtenay. 

“Mrs. Clifton introduced him; he offered me an ice,” she said, in- 
dignantly. 

“ It might not have been his fault that she introduced him,” said 
Mr. Grey. “Did he say or do anything to offend you?” 

Yerena could not tell him the truth. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


117 


I did not like the way he looked at me,” she said. 

The words sounded almost childish. Mr. Grey looked at her with 
a smile. 

“ He shall not speak to you again, and I will keep a watch even 
on his looks. But perhaps you would like to go home.” 

“I can’t take Kate away.” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Mr. Grey, “ is there anything in that quarter?” 

“A great deal, I think. And he is the Clif tons’ friend. I am so 
sorry, t)ut I mustn’t stand in Kate’s light. He has come in! Oh, 
don’t leave me, James.” 

“We shall have Kate after us again.” 

“Kate has something else to think of,” said Yerena, looking at her 
husband with a smile kept only for him and Mara. 

Courtenay noticed the good understanding between the husband 
and wife, and speculated as to what story Yerena might tell about 
her relations with himself. But he kept discreetly out of the way. 

There was no sleep for Yerena that night. Yet she got up as usu- 
al, and came down to breakfast with her husband. 

“You never seem tired after a party, Yerena,” he remarked. “ I 
think you must be pretty strong. ” 

“ Strong! I am as strong as a horse,” she replied, thinking that she 
must indeed be strong to suffer as she did and show no sign. Years 
ago she had asked why a broken heart could not kill her. But when 
Mr. Grey had gone away she shut herself in her room, and wept and 
bemoaned herself like a very woman. If Courtenay meant to live in 
London, and meet her at every turn with his insulting looks and in- 
sulting hints, she might well wish herself dead. He would find out 
about Mara, and discover that his child was the dearest thing on 
earth to her. The humiliation seemed greater than she could bear. 

“ Mara’s father!” she kept repeating to herself. “ Oh, my darling, 
my darling, I wonder that I can love you so!” 

If Courtenay did find out about Mara, she would tell James too. 
No one else could help her in such a strait. He would not send 
them away, to be persecuted by Courtenay, she knew that. They 
would have his shelter and protection, whatever happened. But he 
could never look at them in the same way again. 

The gong sounded for luncheon, and little feet pattered down the 
stairs, and little hands beat a tattoo on Yerena’s door. She went 
down with the child clinging to her, and begging to be taken into 
the Park. 

“You never take me out now,” she said; and Yerena’s heart 
smote her. Once she had scarcely gone out without Mara, but now 
the fear of being seen with her child overcame all personal inclina- 
tions. She could not take Mara into the Park. It was the very 
place where Courtenay would look for them, or rather for herself. 

“Suppose I take you to Hampstead Heath, darling,” she said; 
“ we can run about there, and perhaps you shall have a donkey.” 

This was better than the Park to Mara. But they were not to 
reach Hampstead that day. They took a hansom, and Yerena told 
the man to drive fast. She was impatient to get out of the streets. 


118 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


and into the quiet neighborhood where Courtenay would not come. 
The horse went off at a great pace with a good many jerks, but 
Yerena did not heed, and Mara enjoyed the motion. 

“How he joggles about; isn’t it nice?” she remarked. 

They had just passed out of the Regent’s Park, through Maccles- 
field Gate, nearly grazing a cart in their passage, when a sudden 
lurch came. Yerena threw herself back, clutching Mara, just as 
the horse fell to the ground. 

A crowd came round in a moment, and they were helped out. 
With a feeling of intense thankfulness, Yerena found her darling 
standing safely at her side, not a bit frightened, only pleasantly ex- 
cited by the adventure. It had done Yerena good. She was still 
tremulous from the horror of that one moment, when she had 
thought that Mara would be thrown out; but in the sudden revul- 
sion of feeling which followed, all her former phantoms of fear 
were dispersed. She forgot Courtenay. Paying the cabman a fare 
which filled him with agreeable surprise, and sowing shillings broad- 
cast among those members of the crowd who were most prompt to 
improve the opportunity, Yerena turned back .into the Regent’s 
Park, and walked under the bare hawthorns with Mara. 

“I’m afraid we must give up Hampstead to-day, darling,” she 
said, considering whether the “Zoo ” or the Botanic Gardens might 
be substituted. 

“Let us go home and tell Lisette,” said Mara. She could not 
have suggested a safer amusement. 

“ Do you think that you could vralk all the way?” asked Yerena. 
She did not really doubt Mara’s capacity, but rather her inclination 
for the exercise. 

‘ ‘ Oh yes. ” 

Children do not reason, and Mara probably supposed that she 
should accomplish her object sooner by consenting to walk. So 
they walked home, instead of trusting themselves to another cab. 
Mara rushed open-mouthed to Lisette, who held up her hands utter- 
ing voluble exclamations in French and English, and showing a full 
appreciation of the sensational side of the event. Then there were 
Aunt Emmie and Cousin Kate to be told, and, last and best of all, 
Uncle James. This auditor, however, disappointed Mara. She had 
hung about watching for his return, she had bound over Yerena and 
the others not to tell him first, but when she at last ran into his 
arms, telling all her story, after a little child’s fashion, in one short 
sentence, he showed none of the interest and amusement she expect- 
ed. Gently putting her aside, he advanced to Yerena, and said, al- 
most angrily for him, 

“Yerena, I will get you any sort of carriage you like, but I will 
have no more flying about in hansom cabs. ” 

Emmeline here joined in. 

“ Oh, James, you don’t know how rash Yerena is. She always 
tells the man to go fast, and she doesn’t mind how carelessly he 
drives. The other day I w'as with her, and we ran into a carriage, 
and were nearly upset, but Yerena only laughed. I am not at all 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


119 


timid. Every one knows I am remarkably brave, but Verena is iust 
foolhardy.*’ 

Emmeline had some truth on her side. Yerena was not cautious. 
She had by nature something of her father’s recklessness. Her te- 
merity might have surprised those people who confound a high spirit 
with what are commonly called high spirits. Only the severe disci- 
pline of her early years had made Verena the staid and grave wom- 
an she was. But she protested against being called rash and fool- 
hardy. 

“ If I were careless of my own safety,” she said, looking reproach- 
fully at her husband, “ you can never suppose I would be careless of 
Mara’s.” And she took the child in her arms with one of those in- 
voluntary movements of motherly tenderness which were beginning 
to turn Kate’s suspicions into a new channel. 

“ Well, you shall choose your carriage to-morrow,” said Mr. Grey, 
“and you shall have old Forder to drive vou: then you may go 
where you like.” 

“Let us have a dear little carriage with two white horses,” said 
Mara, confidentially. She had already appropriated this substitute 
for the hansoms. 

“I don’t think I shall let you have a victoria,” said Mr. Grey. 
“If Yerena insists on driving like the wind, it may come to grief.’’ 

“ I fancy I see old Forder driving like the wind,” remarked Kate. 
“Yerena is much more likely to be seen pushing behind.” 

“ And what am I to do ?’-’ asked Emmeline, with a dignified air 
of injury. 

“You and your brougham must be trusted to a new coachman,” 
said her brother. “Forder is required as a counterpoise to Yerena’s 
youthful impetuosity.” 

“ I want to speak to you about something besides the brougham,” 
said Emmeline, “but I would rather speak to you alone.” 

The Kings were beginning to press for an answer. They could 
not take the house they wanted unless Emmeline joined them, but 
they did not wish it to slip through their fingers. But Mr. Grey, as 
Kate had foreseen, did not take very kindly to the project. 

“ I have no fault to find with the Kings,” he said, “ but I don’t 
care for your being mixed up with the sort of people you will meet 
at their house. It would divide you from us, too, more than if you 
lived with friends of our own. Why not join Aunt Kate?” 

“ I should not care to live in lodgings.” 

“But she might take a house. You always got on with Kate, 
And Gertie will, I suppose, be married before long.” 

“I get on with every one,” said Emmeline, forgetting that she 
had just declared life with Yerena to be unbearable. “I am the 
easiest person to live with. Plenty of people would be glad to 
have me.” 

“Then why close with the Kings in a hurry? Remember, you 
cannot easily get out of it again, if they take this house on the 
strength of your joining them.” 

Emmeline considered. 


120 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


‘ ‘ I should get tired of Bertie and Gertie ; they are just like a pair 
of love-birds.” 

‘ ‘ Pretty harmless little creatures, too, ” remarked Mr. Grey. 

‘'And they may go on for years,” continued Emmeline. “ Ber- 
tie’s mother isn’t coming to England, so nothing can be settled.” 
But she did not quite reject the suggestion of a home with Aunt 
Kate. “Bessie asked me to go and stay wuth them for a few 
weeks.” 

‘ ‘ Go for a week, if you like, and tell her that you see difficulties 
about pledging yourself to a permanent arrangement. Suppose you 
were to marry!” 

This suggestion rather pleased Emmeline. And she did not quite 
like the* idea of losing her liberty in any other way. 

“But there would be the same difficulty if I lived with Aunt 
Kate.” 

“Not at all. I have always wished Aunt Kate to have a house 
of her own, but she is rather an impracticable person. I should like 
you to keep the brougham, too, if you lived with Aunt Kate.” 

This perhaps settled the question. At all events, Emmeline de- 
cided in favor of Aunt Kate. Only the younger Kate did not want 
to hurry matters. Emmeline would be rather in the way, till she 
had made herself a little more secure in the matter of Mr. Farquhar. 

“He has called on us,” she exclaimed, triumphantly, coming in 
and finding Yerena alone with Mara. “ Oh,” seeing Yerena’s look 
of surprise, ‘ ‘ he got an excuse of course. He brought us some tick- 
ets for a concert. He told me about it the other day.” 

“ You seem to see him pretty often.” 

“Yes, thanks to Mrs. Clifton. But no one can say I have thrown 
myself at his head. He has spared me the trouble. Well, he called 
at the most inopportune moment. The dinner things were still 
about at four o’clock; we had kept them for Gertie, who has gone 
at her cooking again. But it didn’t matter with Mr. Farquhar. 
The deficient splendor of our establishment was quite lost on him. 
He had his secretary, or somebody, in the carriage with him, but 
luckily he didn’t bring him in. He stayed a fearfully long time, so 
we had to give him tea, and I gave him the one eggshell china tea- 
cup which we keep for show. I thought it would feel elegant. He 
could not see that we were taking our tea out of delft on the cor- 
ner of a most untidy dinner-table.” 

“How did your mother get on with him?” 

“Oh, mother quite took to him. She thought he talked beauti- 
fully. I think she mistook his cant for her own ; don’t look so an- 
gry, of course I know mother isn’t feally cant. But Mr. Farquliar’s 
talk bores me awfully. There’s a highly superior twang about it 
which you might like,but I don’t. And a dreadful earnestness which 
reminds me of you at your worst. And a lot of twaddle about liv- 
ing for others and loving our fellow-creatures, that I have been dosed 
with by the orthodox all my life. It does seem hard to find my old 
foes cropping up with new faces. What’s the good of throwing up 
all our doctrines of a future state and my mother’s favorite place of 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


121 


torment, if we are to make ourselves miserable all the same? Nat- 
ure didn’t make me good, and if I am to be good against the grain, 

I should like to get something for it.” 

“But, Kate, do you sincerely pretend to think that Christians are 
only moved by self-interest? We don’t even try to serve each other 
on such low grounds as that.” 

“ Well, I don’t know. If I consent to serve Mr. Farquhar, it will 
certainly be on the lowest possible grounds. No one knows what I 
suffer in restraining myself from a suicidal outbreak of flippancy 
before him. I did try to relieve my mind by making faces at him, 
but I only sent Gertie out of the room in convulsions.” 

“Dear Kate, do not, pray, marry this man if he is so distasteful to 
you.” 

“Dear Verena, do not, pray, advise this woman if she is so little 
known to you.” 

“ Remember, it is for life.” 

“Well, yes! There may be a good time coming, when all social 
laws will be relaxed, but not in my day, I fear. Don’t rack your 
brains for arguments, Verena. I am a great deal older than you 
are, and I think myself a great deal wiser. Pray, did any one ad- 
vise you not to marry James?” 

“No, indeed,” replied Verena, falling into a trap. “My father 
knew what a happy thing it would be for me.” 

“ Ah, I thought so. ” 

“But I liked him very much,” cried Verena, indignantly; “he 
never bored me. I thought him one of the nicest men I had ever met.” 

‘ ‘ Only you married him because it was the prudent and sensible 
thing to do ! And I am going to marry Mr. Farquhar for the same 
reason.” 

“I hope that when you have been married a year you may love 
him half as well as I love my husband.” 

“ I hope I may! But I don’t think I shall. And I hope he may 
study all my wishes and fancies half as much as James studies 
yours. But I don’t think he will!” 

It seems strange that Mara should have been an unheeded auditor 
of this conversation. But neither of the talkers had felt restrained 
by her presence. Mara had been used to live with grown-up people 
all her life, and to hear them discuss their own affairs before her. 
No one quite knew how much she took in. But on this occasion 
she had evidently gathered the gist of the matter. She suddenly 
turned her soft brown eyes on Kate, and asked, 

“Are you going to be married. Cousin Kate?” 

“ L' enfant terrible!” said Kate, in a low voice. 

“Perhaps Cousin Kate may l3e married some day like Gertie,” 
observed Verena. 

“ And may I be your brides-maid, too?” asked Mara. “ But will 
you be married on the same day?” 

“No,” said Kate. “I haven’t made up my mind about being 
married at all yet. But you must not say anything about it to Aunt 
Emmie. She might be jealous.” 


122 


A DAUGHTER OR THE GODS. 


“Aunt Emmie is jealous of Veena/’ said Mara, producing a piece 
of second-hand wisdom. 

“Oh, Mara, my pet, you shouldn’t say that,” cried Verena. 

“Lisette says it,” replied the child, as if that settled the question. 

“Every one is jealous of Veena,” said Kate, “ especially Mrs. Clif- 
ton. You are a sort of Mordecai sitting in her gate, Yerena, and 
you won’t even let her bow down to you. She is always bothering 
me about you. How do you think she accounts for James giving 
up Street Cobham?” 

“I don’t know,” said Verena, “and I don’t think I care.” But 
she felt an uneasy curiosity, nevertheless. 

“She thinks you are so extravagant that James cannot afford 
elections. She points to your wonderful dresses, your diamonds, 
your new carriage. She says that you turned up your nose at the 
modest victoria and the useful landau Nothing but the prettiest 
barouche in London was good enough for you ! ‘ And quite right, 
too,’ Mr. Courtenay said. You profess to be a lover of your own 
sex, Yerena, but it is the men who always stand up for you.” 

Yerena would have died sooner than let Kate suspect that Court- 
enay was anything more than an indifferent stranger to her. But 
it was hard to have to listen to his compliments even at second-hand. 

Kate knew that Yerena hated being talked about, so she went on, 
mischievously ; 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Clifton cannot think why you are not going to be presented. 
But Mr. Courtenay said you showed your good sense.” 

This was almost too much to bear Courtenay had tormented 
Yerena ever since the evening she met him. She knew that he 
watched and waylaid her, though it was in too unobtrusive a way 
for her to resent it openly. He had found out her usual resorts and 
made them his own. Even the Temple Church was no sanctuary, 
and during the week-day services throughout Lent she was driven 
from church after church by his intrusion. He never ventured to 
approach or address her, but the consciousness that he was looking 
at her came between her and all possibility of devotion. Yerena 
never took Mara to the Zoo on a Sunday now. She had seen Court- 
enay there. 

Mr. Grey thought that religious scruples kept her away. She was 
obliged to let him think so. She could not tell what an insult Court- 
enay’s quiet, determined persecution was to her 

The days were coming when Yerena would feel that she should 
have cried to the passing moments, as Faust longed to cry, “Stay! 
thou art so fair.” “Even as a miser counts his gold,” she should 
have counted the spring months; but, as they went by, they were 
all imbittered to her. 


A DAUGHTER QF THE GODS. 


123 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ What does this culprit want?” asked Mr. Grey, looking up from 
his briefs. Verena stood before him with her head drooping and a 
shamefaced expression. Yet a smile lurked at the corners of her 
mouth. She held out an open letter. 

“It’s not a culprit,” she said, “but a counsel rather ashamed of 
his cause. Though I know you will grant it this once.” 

“How much?” laughed Mr. Grey, recognizing Annette’s hand- 
writing. 

“I’m almost ashamed to tell you. But you asked me to choose 
a present for our wedding-daj^ Will you give me this?” 

“ No, I must give you something more lasting in memory of that 
most happy day. ” 

“Is it most happy?” asked Verena, coming to stand behind his 
chair. “I thought you might envy Achille. But I do not think 
you need — at least not always.” 

If she had asked the half of his fortune for Annette, he would 
have been disposed to give it her then. Though it should rather 
have been an occasion for saving. 

“ Annette does not ask me to go to her. But I almost feel as if I 
ought. ” 

“No,” cried Mr. Grey, decidedly, “ I cannot have you going to 
keep house for Achille. But Easter is near; I will take you to Paris 
then, if you like.” 

“Oh yes; may I write and tell Annette so? Would you like to 
read her letter? It is very — I suppose you would say plausible.” 

“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t,” said Mr. Grey, still in good-humor. 
“I need not read it. You want to send the money; that is enough 
for me. Oh, I expected something worse than that,” he added, as 
Verena named the amount. “You don’t want it to-night, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Well, I do rather. The appeal seems urgent this time. And I 
don’t want Annette to be kept in suspense. I thought I might send 
Clark to the post-office this evening. I’m very troublesome, I’m 
afraid, and very extravagant.” 

“Not extravagant, certainly; no one can call you that.” 

“Mrs. Clifton says I am.” 

Mr. Grey muttered some expression which was scarcely a benedic- 
tion on Mrs. Clifton. 

“You had better leave it to me to send the money,” he said; “just 
write your note to Annette. And keep your own counsel, or Mrs. 
Clifton may hear all about it.” 

A few days later came a letter from Achille announcing the birth 


124 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


of a sou. Annette was doing well, and sent her dearest love to 
Verena and longed to show her the baby. 

“ How glad I am we sent the money!” cried Verena, joyfully. 

“You h^ave a little brother, Mara,” announced Emmeline, as the 
child came in to breakfast. Verena remained silent. The little 
Dagomet was no kith or kin of Mara’s, and she could not bear to 
hear it called her brother. But Mara was delighted. 

“Oh, do take me to see him,” she implored Verena. 

“You shall see him at Easter,” was the reply, for they had ar- 
ranged to take Mara with them to Paris. 

“ I meant to go with you,” said Emmeline, “ but I think I shall go 
to Aunt Kate instead. I might as well stay a few weeks with her 
before I make up my mind to any permanent arrangement. And 
Kate and I might look at a few houses in their neighborhood. You 
are sure to move somewhere in that direction, Verena?” 

“I rather like the house we saw in Kensington Garden Terrace,” 
replied Verena, “ but we might go to South Kensington. Even that 
is not very far from Bayswater, ” 

Verena wondered how Kate would like having Emmeline quar- 
tered upon her at present, but Kate did not seem to mind. 

“It’s as well Emmeline should begin to suspect something now,” 
she said; “ she would never forgive me if my engagement came on 
her like a thunder-clap.” 

“Do you think she will care to live with your mother if she is 
likely to lose you so soon?” 

“ Oh yes, she will have it all her own way then. She will sit on 
mother and Gertie, but they are meek spirits and won’t mind. And 
mother is really fond of Emmeline.” Then Kate added, slyly, “You 
need not fret yourself, Verena. Emmeline is quite as much set on 
leaving you, as you are on getting rid of her. She does not like to 
be overshadowed.” 

Verena wrote daily to Annette. But she grew impatient for more 
news of her. 

“Why does not that horrid Achille write?” she asked each day. 
And each morning, as her husband went down-stairs before her, she 
begged him to bring up any letter from Paris. 

“May I open it?” he asked once. 

“Of course,” she answered, unsuspiciousl}^ 

A black-edged letter had come from Paris that morning. Mr. Grey 
did not like the look of it. It was as he feared. Perhaps Annette 
had never been so well as Achille made out, perhaps a change had 
come for the worse. Anyhow, she was dead now — ten days after 
her child’s birth. 

Mr. Grey went up-stairs and broke it very gently to Verena. But 
she felt if keenly. Annette had been too near to her for years not 
to be very dear. Her mind w^ent back to the girlish days when An- 
nette had been kind to her. She recalled her good-natured though 
most injudicious sympathy with her early love — her tenderness to 
her in her despair. And the days at Ghent when Mara was born. 
No one had been so kind to her as Annette then. They might have 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


125 


fallen out occasionally in later years. Annette would sometimes be 
angry at the favor shown to Yerena by her father; she would some- 
times tease Yerena by playing on her jealous affection for her child. 
But there had never been any real division between them. And now 
when the news of Annette’s death came, Yerena for a time forgot 
everything else in mourning for her. It was her husband who first 
recalled her thoughts to another subject. 

“Yerena,” he said, gently, you must do what is right, but I hope 
you will not think it necessary to put our poor little Mara into such 
very deep mourning. ” 

“Oh, my poor little pet,” cried Yerena, “I had forgotten her. 
How will she take it? Oh,” with a sudden recollection of her grief 
for the kitten, “perhaps they have told her already.” 

Yerena rushed up-stairs to the nursery. Lisette was always a per- 
son of prompt measures. But she had told Mara the news in a way 
that robbed it of its sting. 

Mara met Yerena with a grave, awed look, but no display of grief. 

“ Yeena,” she said, coming to her as usual for confirmation, “ Lis- 
ette says that my maman has gone to heaven.” 

Heaven did not seem so much farther off than Paris to the child. 

“Oh, Yeena, you have been crying” — and her own eyes filled — 
“But Lisette says I shall go there too. Only not at Easter.” 

“Heaven forbid,” thought Yerena, clasping her closer. 

“ Tell me about heaven,” said Mara. 

Yerena had often told her before. But the place seemed vague 
and far off till her own maman went there. 

Yerena carried her down-stairs to her own little room. 

“ Papa went to heaven,” she said; “does not Mara remember dear 
papa?” 

Mara considered. She was getting to an age to think, and even to 
rack her little brains occasionally. 

“Papa was a long time going to heaven,” she said at last, “but 
maman never told us she was going.” 

The uncertainty of life was being vaguely borne in on Mara. But 
she had no horrible ideas of death in connection with her maman. 
And Yerena kept the child apart till she had warned all the house- 
hold against speaking of the darker side of death in her presence. 
No coffin or grave should be so much as hinted at in Mara’s hearing. 
Let death be to her simply the step to heaven. No need to tell her 
of a possible alternative. Yerena’s gospel to the child had hitherto 
been all a gospel of mercy. 

She would not draw on her imagination in answering Mara’s ques- 
tion about heaven. But out of scattered texts and passages that dwelt 
in her memory she drew a fair picture. She had scarcely known 
how fair the picture was till she had framed it. 

“We will go and buy some beautiful fiowers and send them to 
maman,” she said. 

“ Will she cafe for our fiowers now?” asked Mara^ still speaking 
in an awestruck tone. 

“She may have much more beautiful flowers/’ replied Yerena^ 


126 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


‘‘but I think she will like us to send them. Shall we get a wreath 
or a cross? Or shall it be an anchor, Mara?” 

Yerena kept Mara with her all day, and it was good for herself that 
she could not openly grieve. Every one looked kindly on the child, 
and spoke to her tenderly. Mr. Grey came home early and found 
the two still sitting together, Mara’s brown head pressed against Ye- 
rena’s pale, sad face. 

“ Our poor little one,” he said, speaking in German; “she may 
not have lost so very much, yet I feel as if we owed her even more 
now. No father, no mother,” he added, sadly. 

Yerena’s tears fell fast on the little head. The farce was played 
out. Annette would never again claim her darling, never provoke 
her by playing the part of mother too well. 

“You would not let me see the letter. Was there nothing more 
in it?” she asked. 

“I told it you word for word. I think poor Annette must have 
died of fever.” 

“ Why do you call her poor?” asked Mara, wonderingly. 

Mr. Grey accepted the reproof. 

“ It is a foolish habit, Mara. I will not say it again.” 

“ I wish there had been a line for me from her,” said Yerena. 

There had been a line, it was scarcely more. But Achille had his 
own reasons for suppressing that line. 

“He says she asked m^-e to love the child for her sake. I have been 
thinking of that poor child all day, James.” 

“Let us do nothing rashly, but we will not forget the poor child. 
I do not think he is very likely to live, either. ” 

Annette’s child troubled Yerena’s mind sorely, and none the less 
because she was conscious of a shrinking from this poor little creat- 
ure who would claim a close relationship with Mara. She was speak- 
ing about it one day to Gertie. 

‘ ‘ I wonder you don’t adopt it,” said the baby-lover. “Think how 
Mara would love a baby.” 

“Do you really think she would?” asked Yerena, doubtfully. 
She had always thought of a baby as a rival to Mara, not as a de- 
light to her. Yet the child had seemed pleased at hearing of a little 
brother. 

“ Of course she would,” cried Gertie, astonished. “I think it is 
the prettiest thing in the world to see how little children always love 
their baby brothers and sisters. ” 

Gertie was not observant, but something in Yerena’s face, a con- 
scious, hopeful look, was a revelation to her. 

“ Oh — h!” a very long and loud “oh.” “Isn’t James pleased?” 

“You must not talk of it. It will not be for a long time yet,” 
said Yerena. 

A slight shade came over Gertie’s face. 

“I suppose Mara will be nowhere now, ’’she said, regretfully. 

“No, no,” cried Yerena, passionately, “ no child can ever be to me 
what Mara is.” 

And she suddenly burst into tears. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


127 


Ko glad voioes had hailed her Mara’s advent. In silence and shame 
she had been allowed to creep into life, her birth “a sorrow’s crown 
of sorrow.” Verena knew that her own father had wished that her 
child might die, that it had been months before he could look at it 
without a feeling akin to loathing. Mara’s very name had been given 
her in protest against the childish mother’s undisciplined joy over 
her dear-bought treasure. But the grandfather had learned, in spite 
of himself, to love the child thus forced upon him. And she had 
made herself friends in the home of her adoption. Verena loved to 
think that her heavenly Father had given to the fatherless waif 
gifts which had won all hearts to her. 

It was well that Kate was not the witness of Verena’s strange out- 
break. It brought no enlightenment to Gertie. She only wondered, 
and when Verena recovered herself she tried to talk on safe subjects. 

‘ ‘ When is your birthday, Verena?” she asked, ‘ ‘ and when is Mara’s? 
I want to make you each a cake.” 

“ Mara’s is the 4th and mine the 6th of May,” replied Verena; “ but 
we never kept birthdays at home.” 

Gertie’s question had again carried her thoughts to the past — to 
her seventeenth birthday, when the recollection of a whole year of 
horror had been almost effaced by the sweetness of the possession 
which had come to her only two days before. 

“Where are you going at Easter?” asked Gertie, still trying to 
make conversation. 

“ I suppose we ought to go to Paris all the same, for the sake of 
my poor Annette’s child,” said Verena, turning to her husband who 
now joined them; “ but I confess to a longing for country and prim- 
roses.” 

“Country and primroses you shall have, ’’said Mr. Grey; “they 
will be much better for you, and for Mara too. I have settled it all. 
My clerk Bird is going to Paris for me. I have told him to find out 
what he can about Achille; we are rather in the dark at present. 
And if desirable he can make himself known, and see what can be 
done for the poor child. We might go ourselves later. The baby 
will not be led into evil ways by his father just yet.” 

There was no need for Verena to disturb herself about the future 
of Annette’s baby. Bird soon discovered that it had died a few 
days after its mother. Achille had omitted to inform the Greys of 
this fact; there was even some difficulty in reconciling it with cer- 
tain expressions which he had used in a letter written to Verena 
since the event. 

“We may consider our account with Monsieur Dagomet closed,” 
was Mr. Grey’s remark, “ and I do not think, from what Bird tells 
me, that I had formed too harsh a judgment of him.” 

They were at Bonchurch when the news came. Verena had ask- 
ed to be taken to some quiet, unfashionable place, and she was rev- 
elling in seclusion and primroses. It was a second honey-moon, far 
happier than the first, and they had Mara with them. Mara who 
was getting quite a companion, Mr. Grey said. 

“But she was always a companion,” replied Verena, reprovingly. 


128 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


The holiday was all too short. Mr. Grey went back to his briefs, 
and Verena to the social duties that she hated. She did not attempt 
to make Annette’s death an excuse for escaping them; yet she dread- 
ed this season far more than the last, for now the fear and danger 
of meeting Courtenay threatened her. And Kate was establishing 
an intimacy with Mrs. Clifton, while Mr. Farquhar was one of Mr. 
Clifton’s oldest friends. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

A FEW days after her return Verena was sitting with Emmeline, 
when Kate came blithely into the room. 

‘ ‘ Congratulate me, my friends, I am. engaged, ” she announced. 

“What!” cried Emmeline, flushing up, “have you brought your 
blind man to the point at last?” 

“Yes,” replied Kate, “I suppose he meant to make me an offer. 
At all events, I accepted him.” 

“Well,” said Emmeline, “I should like to have a man at my feet 
before I accepted him. ” 

“Men don’t go on their knees to make an offer nowadays, ” re- 
marked Kate. ‘ ‘ I don’t suppose a man on all-fours would look more 
astonishing.” 

“I did not mean it literally,” replied Emmeline; “but what did 
Mr. Farquhar say?” 

‘ ‘ I think he said that w^e should elevate each other’s moral char- 
acters. I have always felt that a little worldly wealth would elevate 
my moral character considerably.” 

“Did you tell him so?” 

“Kot exactly. I said it had been my noblest aspiration to be a 
blind man’s dog.” 

“Dear Kate,” said Verena, affectionately, “ it is your way to make 
fun of everything. But I hope that you will be very happy. ” 

“ Dear Verena,” replied Kate, “ you are too good for this world. 
But I want to know how you could reconcile it to your conscience 
to tell Mr. Farquhar that I had a charming face. It was in a good 
cause, I own ; but is there not something about perverting the w^ay 
of the blind?” 

“ I said what I thought. I do not know whether you Tvere ever 
plain. But you are not plain now.” 

“Of course I get handsomer as I grow old. All women do,” re- 
plied Kate, gravely. 

“I suppose I may bring my young man to call on you, Verena. 
He wants to come ; he was wonderfully taken with you. I rather 
hoped that the one man who couldn’t see you would doubt wheth- 
er pearls and diamonds fell from your lips every time ^ou opened 
them,” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


129 


“ I am sure Mr. Farquhar got on very well with me,” said Emme- 
line, rather resentfully. 

“Oh yes,” said Kate, willing to keep her friend in good-humor, 

‘ ‘ it was lucky for me I had got first in the field, or you would have 
quite cut me out, Emmeline.” 

“Fancy you being married, ” said Emmeline, “and before me?” 

“I am like that young woman who made a cage,” remarked Kate, 
‘ ‘ while you have been spreading nets and entangling the hearts of 
men. This is my first offer; I don’t mind who knows it, always ex- 
cepting Mr. Farquhar. He might doubt the soundness of Verena’s 
statement, especially as I had the honesty to tell him I was three- 
and-thirty. I knew mother was in the habit of dropping indiscreet 
hints for the wary.” 

“ I hope you will never let him know I am as old,” cried Emme- 
line. 

“ Or older,” said Kate; “but you may be three-and-twenty if you 
like. Or perhaps it might be safer to let him think you a year or 
two older than Gertie. The fact might leak out, and mother usual- 
ly dates from her birth when it doesn’t suit her to date from mine.” 

“I suppose Aunt Kate will want me all the more when you are 
married,” observed Emmeline, carrying relief to the mind of one at 
least of her hearers. 

“Yes, that she will,” said Kate, “it will be a good exchange for 
her. You always say that you are much more like mother than her 
own daughter is.” 

“And we can take the house all the same,” said Emmeline, who 
had set her affections on a house during her visit to Bayswater. 

“I wish we could get into it before my wedding,” said Kate. 
“Mr. Farquhar wants it to be next week. But of course it can’t 
be,” she add^d, in reply to a cry of dismay from her auditors. “I 
would not fix the day yet, though Mr. Farquhar asked why we need 
wait. It was just after I told him my age, and he knew I shouldn’t 
get any younger. But I mean to have a trousseau and a settlement 
if I can get it. Do you think James would intercede on my behalf, 
Verena?” 

“ Oh, I am sure he would not,” cried Yerena, who knew that her 
husband, like most giving men, was not good at extracting money 
from others. 

“I think it would develop my altruism. My moral character re- 
quires a certain amount of pecuniafy support,” said Kate, insinuat- 



“ Here comes Mara,” said Yerena; “is she to be told your news?” 

“ Oh, of course,” replied Kate. “Mara, Cousin Kate is really go- 
ing to be married.” 

“And is Aunt Emmie jealous?” asked the child, carrying con- 
sternation to the conscience of her hearers. 

Kate felt inclined to smother her. But she turned the subject 
hastily. 

“ Would you like to be my bridesmaid ?” she asked ; “ and what 
would you like to wear?” 


9 


180 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“Oh, I don’t care what I wear/’ cried Mara; “but do let me car- 
ry your train.” 

‘ ‘ Oh no, you can’t be a page. And so you don’t care what you 
wear? You 'are Verena’s true child.” 

Kate 'glanced laughingly at Verena as she spoke. Her words 
might mean nothing. But they might mean a great deal. Was 
Kate on the track? She had indeed glimmerings, vague suspicions 
of something that seemed almost too good to be true. Yet, in spite 
of herself, she could not quite believe what she wanted to believe of 
Verena. And she could not hate her as she had meant to hate her 
once. 

Something seemed always to turn her back when she was trying 
to hunt Verena down; either self-interest interfered, or else her own 
affairs became too engrossing. And when she was married to Mr. 
Farquhar it would certainly be to her advantage to keep on good 
terms with Verena, and to keep Verena’s name and Verena’s fame 
spotless before the world. It was nothing but a sort of curiosity 
and a feeling of mischief that made her from time to time finger the 
threads of her fancied clew. 

It was not for nothing that Verena had been trained- in dissimula- 
tion at the age of sixteen. She could* keep an unmoved counte- 
nance when listening to words that raised undefined terrors. And 
just now her nerves were always clinched. She lived in a state 
of preparation for shocks. And she knew that to keep Kate from 
learning anything about Courtenay, and Courtenay from learning 
all about Mara, would require constant effort. And now, when Em- 
meline was joining in Mara’s talk about the wedding, and offering 
her brother’s house for the occasion, Verena was thinking, “Mr. 
Farquhar will want us to ask- the Cliftons, and Mr. Courtenay will 
go to see the wedding; all eyes will be on my beautiful little darling, 
and they will say that she is like his sister and like him.” 

Verena sent Mara up-stairs with an unwholesome and usually for- 
bidden dainty in her hand. Then, turning to the others, she said, 

“We are very forgetful, and I am the worst of all. How can 
Mara be a' bridesmaid a few weeks after Annette’s death? .And 
now the poor child will be so disappointed.” 

But Mara was to be disappointed in any case. To Verena’s secret 
delight, Mr. Farquhar put his foot down on the suggestion of a gay 
wedding. 

“But I shouldn’t put up with it, Kate,” said Emmeline ; “fancy 
giving in to a man in this way before marriage. Think what a slave 
you will be after.” 

“I trust there is not the man living who could make this free- 
born woman a slave,” replied Kate ; “ but it’s gently does it. If I 
am to emulate our patient Griselda here, it will not be by fiying 
in my lover’s face at the first go-off. Mr. Farquhar asked me if I 
should mind being married before the registrar. ‘Not a bit of it,’ 
said I.” 

“ Oh, but you really must pot/’ cried Vei^ua and Emmeline, for 
once agreed, 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


131 


“Only,” continued Kate, “I told him he must find some decent 
excuse for making a runaway match of it. It would outrage my 
mother’s feelings if she knew it, and I shrank from outraging the 
prejudices of a fellow - citizen. Then Mr. Farquhar (I suppose I 
ought to call him Tom, only I can’t get up any respect for a Tom) 
gave in. Perhaps filial tenderness is one of the old virtues that have 
been kept on when the new ones were engaged.” 

“I see he has given you a ring,” said Emmeline. 

“Yes, it’s my first diamond, so I oughtn’t to tiptilt my nose at it; 
but it’s not a patch on Gertie’s. ” 

“Oh, Kate,” cried Verena, “who would think of comparing en- 
gagement rings?” 

“You wouldn’t,” said Kate. “James told us how you snubbed 
his gifts when he first talked about you.” 

“Oh, I’m sure I didn’t,” cried Verena, with perhaps some self-re- 
proachful recollections of not having sufficiently feigned delight. 
“ I was always very pleased.” 

“ So was I when Tom bestowed this matchless gem upon me. I 
don’t really car®. But I fear it may be an outward and visible sign 
of an inward and spiritual grace. I saw him haggling with a cab- 
man the other day.” 

“ You often haggle with cabmen yourself said Emmeline. 

“Yes, because I’m obliged. Mr. Farquhar isn’t. I’m not a screw 
by nature. It isn’t a family failing.” 

“I don’t think you need complain,” said Emmeline. “ Mr. Far- 
quhar has a beautiful house in Wimpole Street, and the prettiest lit- 
tle brougham I ever saw. ” 

“Yes, that’s all very well, but my idea of wealth is pocket-money. 
I’ve been kept short all my life, and I want to run out with a purse 
full of sovereigns and bank-notes, and buy all the things I fancy, 
not the things I really want. Shopkeepers are the only form of 
humanity who would get anything out of me, if I had my way.” 

‘ ‘ I expect to find you taking up all Mr. Farquhar’s hobbies, nev- 
ertheless,” said Verena. 

“You will find a most imposing semblance of interest, no doubt. 
And as words carry quite as much weight as deeds, and are much 
more in my line, you will hear any amount of beautiful talk. You 
won’t know me in a few months. I shall certainly be eyes to the 
blind, if not feet to the lame, or a father to the poor. But I know 
I shall live to curse the day I learned to read and write.” 

“ I thought you told me that Mr. Farquhar kept a secretary.” 

“ So he does, but there is composition enough in him to keep two 
secretaries going.” 

Kate’s trousseau had to be bought at once, for Mr. Farquhar would 
not wait beyond the end of May. And Emmeline’s house was taken, 
and she was full of painting and decorating and furnishing. It was 
as good as being married herself, and almost made up for Kate’s 
taking a step in advance of her. Emmeline loved to be busy, and 
Mrs. Payn let her have everything her own way. 

Vereoa was still boveriog about the house in Keusington Garden 


132 


A DAUGHTEK OF THE GODS. 


Terrace. She took Mara to see it one day. Of course she could not 
choose a house without Mara, Kate said. 

As they came out, Mara begged to be taken into Kensington 
Gardens. 

“ I haven’t seen the ducks for such a long time,” she pleaded. 

Verena looked at her watch. 

“Well, as far as the bridge, then,” she said; “the carriage can 
meet us there.” 

Mara ran in first. She saw a little crowd of poor children gathered 
round the basin of one of the fountains. They were poking at 
something in the water. One of them was armed with a small coil 
of rope, another held a stick. There was a tiny yellow duckling in 
the basin, a forlorn little thing, which looked as if it should have 
been in the wake of a mother duck. Mara rushed into the midst. 

“Oh, you naughty boy, you mustn’t hurt the little duck,” she 
cried to the boy with the stick. 

The children stood open-mouthed, staring at the dainty little lady. 
Verena followed quickly. She thought they might resent this in- 
terference. But no, Mara was gracious even in her-severity. The 
boy replied, quite civilly, 

“It’s lost, miss.” 

“ But you mustn’t beat it,” said the child. 

Then she turned to Verena to help the duck. 

“Poor little thing!” said Verena; “if we could only see a keep- 
er!” 

She could see no keeper, only a policeman. Bidding Lisette keep 
close to the child, she went to him. He came at once to the rescue. 
But the little frightened duck was not easy to catch. Mara was 
deeply interested. Verena was chiefiy intent on keeping her from 
getting wet. 

“ I think I can help you,” said a pleasant, well-bred voice, which 
filled Verena with wild consternation. She had been caught nap- 
ping for once, and Courtenay had sprung from the earth, or fallen 
from the sky upon her. 

Mara turned confidently to the stranger, who looked like the sort 
of man she was used to, and eagerly enlisted his services. He had 
unfurled an umbrella, and was preparing to fish for the duckling, 
catching it in a sort of improvised landing-net. Mara had already 
laid one little hand on his coat as she bent over to watch the opera- 
tion. 

With a hasty injunction to Lisette to keep hold of the child, Ve- 
rena turned to the little group of children, who had been scattered 
by the sight of a policeman. 

“Which of you will fetch me a cab to this gate ?”^ she asked, 
showing sixpence. 

There was a general stampede. She was soon in a safe shelter. 
Then, addressing the biggest boy, she showed another sixpence. 

“Bring the nurse and the little girl, at once,” she said; “ tell them 
I am ill.” 

In less time than seemed possible, Lisette came carrying Mara. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


133 


It was hard on the child to he carried off just as the little orphan 
had been captured, and was about to be restored to its mother in 
the Serpentine. But Veena ” was ill ; Mara climbed up beside her, 
and put a little arm round her neck, looking in her face with a vague 
alarm. And Yerena looked fearfully to see whether Courtenay 
was watching this little scene, with a sudden light dawning upon 
him. 

But he had already walked away, carrying a most inconveniently 
wet umbrella, and feeling that Yerena had again outwitted him. It 
would have relieved her mind if she could have known that Court- 
enay had not even looked at the face of the child who had given 
him his opportunity. No suspicion entered his mind of the terrible 
weapon which had been so close to his hand. 

Lisette was not disturbed at her mistress’s sudden indisposition. 
But Mara watched Yerena with a wistful look in her beautiful eyes. 
Eyes so horribly like those which had just given her one tender hateful 
glance out of another face. Suddenly Yerena awoke to, a conscious- 
ness of what Mara’s looks meant ; like a flash there came back 
to her a recollection of the days when her own mother had been 
ailing, and she, a child, had watched her with a dim, uneasy sense 
of pain. 

She roused herself to seem gay and natural. She stopped the car- 
riage at a pastry-cook’s. Mara’s tea should be a feast, to make up 
for her lost walk and broken enterprise. And as they sat over the 
banquet Yerena told the prettiest little story that her fancy could 
weave, about the stray duckling and its joyful reunion with its 
mother. 

But when the happy child had been carried off to bed, and Yere- 
na was alone in her room, she dropped the mask and gave way to 
her grief and terrors. She had thought to And some relief by tell- 
ing her husband of the meeting, but she remembered that he knew 
nothing of the real horror of the situation. Juliet’s cry rose to her 
lips: 

“ My dismal scene I needs must act alone.” 

Kate came back with Emmeline to dinner. Yerena had to hear 
out a full account of their day’s shopping, and after dinner to enter 
upon the discussion of a fancy ball which the Copelands were going 
to give. 

“Gertie and Bertie are going as Romeo and Juliet,” said Kate; 
“the part will fit him even better than Gertie suspects.” Then, as 
Yerena’s face failed to show any recognition of Bertie’s past alle- 
giance, she went on: “We might all go as characters from Shake- 
speare ; you, Yerena, as Rosalind — I mean, of course, Rosalind in 
‘As You Kike It.’” 

Yerena’s silence appeared to show that she thought Kate’s hints in 
bad taste. 

“James,” said Kate, as her cousin came in, “how shall Yerena 
go to this fancy ball? Shall she go as Helen? You called her a 
daughter of the gods when you were on your promotion.” 


134 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“ I am of the same opinion, and for the same reason,” said Mr. 
Grey. “But do you propose that I should go as Paris?” 

‘ ‘ Oh no, you will find plenty of men ready to play Paris. Mr. 
Courtenay, for instance; he admires Yerena immensely.” 

Yerena could not restrain a start of impatience and anger. Her 
husband gave her a warning look. 

“We can do without Mr. Courtenay’s admiration,” he said, quiet- 
ly. “I don’t hear a very good character of him. I have talked to 
some men who know him, and I cannot say he comes out very well 
under the process. He was a bad husband for one thing.” 

Yerena listened with surprise and some alarm, but she did not 
show her fears. 

“James shall not be Menelaus,” she said, lightly; “you must find 
me a more domestic character, Kate. ” 

“Well, Hypatia, then! You could still wear the Greek dress 
which Mr. Courtenay (begging your pardon, James) said would be- 
come you so.” 

“I should prefer a heroine whose story was not quite so ghastly,” 
said Mr. Grey. 

“ Well, let Yerena go as one of the Greek heathen goddesses. 
Oh, I forgot, they were not always correct domestic characters. ” 

“ Mary Queen of Scots,” proposed Emmeline. 

“Nonsense, the room will be full of Marys. Besides, James 
wants Yerena to be some one who lived happy ever afterwards, and 
Yerena requires strict respectability.” 

Yerena could scarcely sit and listen to this trifling conversation. 
In her excited, nervous state it seemed more than she could bear. 
And Kate took a mischievous pleasure in dragging forward Mrs. 
Clifton and her brother at every turn. She had no idea why it 
should annoy Yerena. Courtenay’s admiration had no more sig- 
nificance in her eyes than Bertie’s had. If it had pleased Yerena to 
be set up as a beauty, Kate would not have cared to offer her in- 
cense. As it was, she delighted in teasing her about the sensation 
she had created, and declaring that her portrait in the Royal Acade- 
my had made her famous in spite of herself. At last husband and 
wife were alone. 

“Is it not dreadful,” cried Yerena, “ the way Kate goes on about 
that man. And do you know that I saw him to-day?” And she 
proceeded to tell her adventure in Kensington Gardens. 

Mr. Grey was very angry, so angry that it was quite a relief to 
her. 

“ He did not speak to you? And I suppose he might pretend that 
he had not recognized you when he came forward.” 

“He would pretend anything that was false and cowardly; you 
cannot take hold of it,” said Yerena. She could not thoroughly 
wish that her husband should take the man to task. He might find 
out too much. Then, with a renewal of her uneasiness, she asked, 

“ What did you mean by saying that you had talked to men about 
Courtenay?” 

“Well, what I meant was to let Kate know that I had some rea- 


A DAiTGHTEIi OF THE GODS. 


135 


BOn for my antipathy. I did talk to one or two men at the club. I 
need not give you the details, but he is what people call ‘ a bad lot.* 

Mr. Grey had only heard a story of very commonplace vice, but 
he was almost as solicitous to keep Verena from the knowledge of 
sin as if she had been a little child. 

*^‘1 wish you could get him turned out of society,” said Yerena. 
“He follows me everywhere. His looks are an insult.” Ah, her 
husband could not know how great an insult! “ You do not know 
how horrible it is to me to keep meeting him. ** 

There was a passionate ring in her voice which surprised her 
husband. 

“My dearest,’* he said, “how you do excite yourself about noth- 
ing. The fellow is not worth it.” 

Verena clinched her hands. She had a wild longing for her hus- 
band’s protection against Courtenay’s insufferable persecution, yet 
she dared not tell him how sorely she needed it, nor why, before the 
man who had destroyed her life, she felt the same sense of imminent 
danger as a culprit before his judge. 

Mr. Grey had not the key to the situation. But he saw the hunted 
look in his wife’s eyes, he noted her feverish anxiety, and felt a sort 
of sympathetic thrill from her agony. . He tried to soothe her, and 
even to laugh her out of what he considered an unreasonable agi- 
tation. 

“Why, my child,” he said, “if I were of a more jealous disposi- 
tion, I might almost fancy you feared this man’s influence.” 

“ I hate him!” cried Yerena, and the tone was so unlike his wife’s 
that he was almost repelled for a second. “I have hated him ever 
since I found him out, but never so much as since I knew you.” 

There was a sudden change to impassioned tenderness in her 
voice, mixed with such remorse and compunction as he could little 
guess. 

“ Come,” he said, still trying after a man’s fashion to rally her out, 
of her serious mood, “ I owe Courtenay a good turn after all, if he 
has opened your eyes to my manifold perfections.” 

Yerena’s love wks a new and priceless possession to him. And 
she giving it now, as it was her wont to give love, without measure, 
wondered whether he would care for it or her if he knew what 
Courtenay could tell him. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

“How that man does stare at us!” said Gertie. She was sitting 
with Yerena under the trees in Kensington Gardens. 

“I noticed him before,” replied Yerena, indifferently; “he trav- 
elled in the Underground with us.” 

She did not feel at all disturbed. The man was not Courtenay, 
and she feared no one else. 


136 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


Oh, where is Mara?” she cried, suddenly jumping up. 

“ I will go after her. Sit still, Verena, you are tired.” 

Gertie ran off towards the round pond. She could always be 
trusted to take care of Mara, and Verena leaned back in her chair, 
feeling tired in body and mind. She did not notice the man who 
approached her directly she was alone. She looked up with a start 
as he stood before her, taking off his hat and saying, 

“Pardon me, madame. I am Achille Dagomet.” 

Verena felt impatient. Why should Achille Dagomet waylay her 
in this fashion? She was about to ask why he did not come to her 
house, but remembered that this might seem equivalent to an invi- 
tation. Verena felt no doubt as to his identity. Annette had shown 
her Achille’s photograph, and this man might have walked out of 
the picture. Tenderness for Annette restrained her from refusing 
even to speak to her husband. Yet as she gazed at him, in spite of 
his good looks and good clothes, she wondered how Annette could 
have loved this man, obviously, though indescribably, not a gentle- 
man. Dagomet had a smooth, glib tongue. He spoke of his dear 
wife, of her affection for Mrs. Grey, and with all due appearance of 
grief he spoke of his own loss. Yet Verena felt that he was not 
sincere. There was something about him that produced a repulsion 
which might easily become disgust. How could he have imposed 
on Annette? Annette who had been her father’s wife! 

There seemed no need for her to answer the flowing stream of 
words. She wondered where it was all tending. For he had prob- 
ably not sought her in this way merely to sing the praises of his 
dead wife. Verena kept her eyes on the pond where she could see 
Gertie and Mara watching the little boats. She had a vague fear 
lest Achille might seek to lay claim to Mara, and was determined to 
keep them from coming in contact if possible. 

Presently Achille reached the point of his discourse. * He wanted 
money to erect a fltting tomb to the memor}^ of his wife. 

“Why do you not go to Mr. Grey?” asked Verena, remembering 
that her husband had already, through his deputy, paid Annette’s 
funeral expenses. 

Achille looked sadder than ever. . 

“Mr. Grey has an unfortunate prejudice against me,” he said. 

Then followed another stream of words which Verena did not 
heed, though she gathered that they contained excuses and explana- 
tions of the ugly facts which had reached her husband’s ears. 

Verena’s purse was usually well fllled; to-day, as it happened, 
rather better than usual. She wondered whether Achille would 
take its contents and go away. 

“It is so little I can do,” she said, rather weakly, turning out all 
the money she had about her. 

Achille did not disdain it. 

“Ah, madame,” he said, “I knew you would help me. You 
have a good heart. And you know that I have kept your secret.” 

He just waited to see an expression of terror come into the beau- 
tiful, startled face, then he raised his hat and was gone. It was a 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


137 


fresh blow. She was in the power of this man too. Yerena bowed 
her head and felt as if she must give up the fight altogether. Poor 
Annette had betrayed her, and the curse which she feared had come. 
Yet, as she thought again, it seemed impossible that Annette should 
have betrayed her so soon after all her promises. Achille must have 
found the secret out, or perhaps he only suspected it and threw out 
his suggestion at a venture. She knew that her face had betrayed 
her. The shock had been too sudden and too terrible. What would 
Achille Dagomet do? He would try to extort money from her, and 
the more she gave him the more he would want. If she began to 
bribe him it was all over with her, she had sense enough to know 
that. She had given her money to-day before he spoke of a secret. 
She must give no more. Let him rather do his worst. She would 
defy him. Her spirit was not quite broken yet, she thought, raising 
her head and looking round with bright, fearless eyes, half wishing 
to see Achille again. She would ask what he could do with his se- 
cret. He would never part with it without a price. And she even 
smiled as she pictured this man going to her husband and offering 
to sell him a secret which implied her dishonor. What sort of a 
recollection of British brutality would the slender young French- 
man be likely to carry away after that exceedingly bad five min- 
utes ? 

But the smile faded from Verena’s lips and the look of triumph 
from her eyes. Her husband was not the only man who claimed a 
part in her. If Courtenay knew that this man had a hold on her, he 
would buy his secret at any price. She felt secure no longer. 

A husband’s love and loyalty could give her no safe shelter while 
the man she had once thought her husband lived. He had destroyed 
her past, and now, when she had found for herself a smooth road in 
which her weary feet might tread safely, he would place stumbling- 
blocks and pitfalls in her way. She knew that Courtenay desired 
her destruction. She believed that, even if it brought no gain to 
himself, he would by choice have seen her lowered in the eyes of the 
world. That his slave should go free, that his victim should seem 
as pure without as she was within, that the old story should be 
spoDged out and the unhappy heroine live happily afterwards — he 
would never, if he could help it, suffer that. 

Perhaps there was less of malignity in Courtenay’s nature than 
Yerena supposed. He was bad enough without that. Ho doubt her 
determined, defiant attitude made him desire to bring her down, but 
it was to his own level he desired to bring her. She might have en- 
joyed her husband’s love and the world’s respect in peace if she had 
not happened to attract him in her womanhood far more than in her 
girlish days. She would have laughed at the idea of its being pos- 
sible for her to pay him back one-tenth part of the pain he had 
caused her, and yet it is probable that she did avenge herself much 
more than she was aware of. To a self-indulgent, arrogant nature 
such as his, her impregnable contempt was no slight sting. 

“Tired, darling?” said a kind voice, as Mr. Grey came unexpect- 
edly upon her. “ Aunt Kate told me I should find you here, and I 


138 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


could see your hair shining under your bonnet a long way off. I al- 
ways look out for that guide,” he added, laughing. 

“You have got away rather early.” 

“Yes, the consultation was put off. I did not expect to get away 
for another hour. Well, what have you been doing?” 

“ Something rather foolish, I fear. I have just been interviewed 
by Achille Dagomet here, under the trees, and I gave him the con- 
tents of my purse to get rid of him. But I won’t do it again. ” 

“Achille Dagomet!” exclaimed Mr. Grey; “why, how on earth 
did he find you here? And, my dear child, how could you be so 
silly as to give him anything ?” 

‘ ‘ I did not want him to wait till Mara came back, and I was so 
tired. I am afraid I don’t quite know the value of money ; I would 
often pay a great deal to get rid of a bore. ” 

“He can’t touch Mara ; you may make your mind quite easy there. 
But how did he know you?” 

“I think he must have followed me from my house. I never 
thought about it, but I can recollect now that a man in black was 
hanging about the Gower Street station. Mara and I had lunch 
with Aunt Kate; he must have followed us to her house, and wait- 
ed till we came out again. I don’t think this is the first day he has 
watched us.” 

“Well, let it be the last. Give him to a policeman if he annoys 
you, but don’t have anything more to do with him. ” 

“ I am not at all taken with him, I can assure you. I had felt a 
sort of kindness towards him for Annette’s sake. But, oh dear! how 
could she care for him? And now I wish you would go and tear 
Mara away from the boats. We have to see Emmeline’s house after 
tea.” 

Mr. Grey went off, only turning back to say, 

“If Monsieur Dagomet should return, just keep him in conversa- 
tion till I come.” 

Kate greeted them when they came in with the exclamation, 

“Oh, Verena, you have lost such a treat. Mrs. Clifton and Mr. 
Courtenay have been here quite half an hour. We did not tell them 
you were coming, or they might have stayed longer.” 

Verena turned pale, and Mr. Grey looked vexed. Kate went on: 

“Poor Mr. Courtenay — why do you all hate him so? He is not a 
favorite even with my Tom. Only he can’t cut him, because Mr. 
Clifton is such an old friend. How, I rather like a wicked man. It 
has been my trouble through life to find all my friends too good 
for me.” 

“Mr. Courtenay made himself very pleasant,” said Mrs. Payn; 
“ he told Kate a great deal about Holland and Belgium.” 

“ Did you know we were going there for our honey-moon?” asked 
Kate. ‘ ‘ Tom is bent on seeing (that’s a figure of speech) the places 
where the Dutch and the Flemings fought for their liberties. You 
must coach me in Motley’s books, Verena. We are going to make a 
pilgrimage to the tomb of William the Silent — I said one day he was 
my favorite saint. Hot that I know much about him, but I concluded 


A daughter oe The godb. 


139 


from his name that he couldn’t have left a gospel behind him. 1 
shall contrive to come back by Paris. But I do want to see your 
portrait at Ghent, Yerena.” 

“Portrait at Ghent!” exclaimed Mr. Grey, “I didn’t know she had 
a portrait at Ghent.” 

“Oh yes; at least, there is a picture just like her, I am told, at a 
house in the Quai des Moines. I was telling Mrs. Clifton about it. 
And Mr. Courtenay said that if it was half as good as your picture 
in the Exhibition he would go and see it himself.” 

“ Oh, give her air, she is fainting,” cried Gertie, springing forward. 

But Yerena did not quite faint. She only turned deadly white, 
and seemed to lose all control over herself for a few seconds. She 
did not have the relief of losing consciousness. Kate, Courtenay, 
Achille — they were all on her track ; she must soon be hunted to bay. 

“Poor darling, she has tired herself; she has been tired all day/^ 
said Gertie, fanning her, and offering salts. 

“ Better get a doctor at once,” said Kate, “there is a Very nice- 
looking one two doors off.” 

“Better order the undertaker at once,” said Yerena, rousing her- 
self, “ I know that is what you wanted to say, Kate. It is nothing,” 
she added. “Mara, my pet, you need not look frightened.” 

“ Shall I take you home?” asked Mr. Grey. 

“Ko, let me lie here quietly. I shall be all right soon.” She 
smiled and tried to talk lightly to Kate, endeavoring to lull possible 
suspicions. 

Achille hung over Yerena like a sword. In a few days she got a 
reminder from him. She was just sitting down to luncheon, when 
a note was brought to her; it had been left by hand, but the messen- 
ger did not wait for an answer. Yerena had often seen Achille’s 
handwriting when Annette was staying with her; she recognized it 
directly, and would not open the letter before Emmeline. But she 
stole away as soon as she could, and read : 

“Dear Madame, — I am very unfortunate, and there is only you 
who can bring me help. I have the misfortune to be always misun- 
derstood, for example by Monsieur Grey. I will be from three until 
six o’clock to-day, and all the days, at the place where I found you. 
I know that I can trust absolutely to you, for the. sake of the confi- 
dence that you placed in my dear wife. 

“ Accept, madame, my most respectful assurance. A. D.” 

What would James say? He would never let me go, thought Ye- 
rena, but I must find out how much he knows. Better go at once, 
and get it over. • Anything is better than this torture. 

Ever since she had met Achille, Yerena had found herself looking 
fearfully for him, almost as she looked for Courtenay, and she had 
always the fear before her eyes that the two men who were watching 
her might meet and come to an understanding. ‘ ‘ I was too meek last 
time I met Achille,” thought Yerena; “he must see me in a new 
character now.” She felt sure that he was a coward. 


140 


A DAUGHTER OE THE GODS. 


Verena had intended to make calls that afternoon, and one of her 
calls was in Iverness Terrace, not far from the place that Achille had 
fixed for their meeting. She would drive there first. It would be 
dreadful to pay a visit with this horrible weight on her mind, but ap- 
pearances must be kept up. Fortune favored her. Her friend was 
out. She directed her coachman to drive to the little gate just op- 
posite leading into the Kensington Gardens. 

“ Meet me at the bridge,” she said; “ I should like to walk across 
the gardens.” 

Yerena was always a little impatient at being cooped up in a car- 
riage. It was nothing unusual for her to get out and walk. A few 
minutes brought her to the spot that Achille had chosen. He was 
there, as she expected. 

Yerena looked very differently from what she had looked the oth- 
er day. She carried herself with something more than her usual 
dignity, and with a certain fearlessness and alertness of bearing that 
had nothing in it to encourage an impostor or a bully. She spoke' 
first this time. 

“I have brought no money with me to-day. Monsieur Dagomet, 
and you will get nothing out of me. You may as well understand 
that at once.” 

Achille looked at her with astonishment. Her prompt compliance 
with his demand for a meeting had raised his hopes. 

“Why does madame seek me?” he asked. 

“I wanted to know what you meant by an expression that you 
used the last time we met,” replied Yerena; “you have heard no 
secrets about us from your wife, I am quite sure of that.” 

“Are you so sure, madame? have you no fear of dishonor?” said 
Achille, filling his victim with terror which she dared not show. 

“I have no fear of you, or of anything you can do,” she exclaim- 
ed, forgetting her usual regard for truth in the emergency. 

Then the bully rose to the surface as Achille bent forward, and fix- 
ing his eyes on Yerena’s face, said, 

“You do not fear, madame — you who gave five hundred pounds 
to hush up this matter once?” 

A second of blank amazement, then a rush of joyful relief. Achille 
had destroyed his cause by those words. Years ago, before her love- 
story had been even begun, her father had been mixed up in an af- 
fair that certainly did not redound to his credit. Some mercy had 
been shown him, some time of grace allowed, till his daughter could 
make good his defalcations with half the little fortune that came to 
her from her mother. 

Yerena wondered whether Achille had gathered some details of 
this story, and combined them with hints which might have dropped 
from Annette of a secret. She went to work warily. 

“You forget,” she said, “ that the only person who could suffer 
from an exaggerated version of that old story is dead.” 

“But a daughter cares for her dead father’s honor, and Monsieur 
Grey might not like to know that his wife’s father was a swindler.” 

“ I will not hear such words used of my father. You have picked 


DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


141 


up a garbled story of an atfair which gave us some annoyance at the 
time, and you want to trade on it. Give me your address if you like ; 
I will consult Mr. Grey; it is fitter for him to deal with this matter 
thanior me/' 

Verena turned away as she spoke, but Achille followed her. 

“ You will not tell Monsieur Grey the story?” he said. 

“Yes, I shall,” replied Verena, “ but if you will not trust me you 
may tell him yourself. Go to his chambers in King’s Bench Walk 
any day between eleven and five. If he is not there, they will tell 
you where he may be found. I will ask him to see you. But for 
myself I will hold no more communication with you. I will not 
speak to you again if you meet me; I will not open a letter from you. 
And you must leave me now, or I shall speak to this policeman. ” 

She saw one watching her companion rather suspiciously, and she 
moved towards him. Achille slunk off in the opposite direction. 
Verena walked across the gardens joyfully; everything looked beau- 
tiful to her. So great a weight had been taken off her mind that 
she forgot for a time all her other troubles. She had forgotten that 
old story about her father. It would be rather painful to tell her 
husband, though perhaps Verena, in her filial love, scarcely guessed 
how the story might strike another She had never meant to keep 
any secret but the one cruel secret of her life from her husband. 

Achille Dagomet went away, feeling that he had played his trump 
card and lost. Some of his own associates had told him that story 
of his wife’s first husband. He had taunted her with it when she 
was disposed to pride herself on Mr. Dogan’s rank. But the idea of 
using it as a weapon against Verena was put into his head by a scrap 
of writing that poor Annette had made an effort to send to Verena 
just before her death. 

“Dearest Verena,” it ran, “be kind to my poor baby for my sake. 
I have kept your secret.” 

Verena had never known of that scrap of writing. But she had 
no fear of Achille now. She drove on and made her calls with a 
light heart, and came back late, to find her husband waiting for her. 
Mr. Grey had got home early, as he occasionally did. 

“As you never would if you were in the House,” said Verena; 
“how glad I am you gave it up! And I have a great deal to tell 
you before the others come in.” 

Then she showed him Achille’s letter. 

“ Of course you will not go,” he said. 

Verena folded her hands and put on a face of mock penitence. 

‘ ‘ Forgive me, I have been ; but you must not scold me, for I am 
rather proud of the way I conducted the interview. Only first I 
must tell you something about my dear father which Achille Dago- 
met thought entitled him to put a screw on me. He said I had paid 
five hundred pounds hush-money years ago, but it was only the pay- 
ment of a debt.” 

“You need not tell me,” said Mr. Grey, quietly, “I have heard 
all about it. And your father himself told me how you had paid 
five hundred pounds out of your mother’s fortune, ’’ 


142 


A DAtJGHTEE OF THE GODS. 


■/ 


*‘Did my father tell you about it before we were engaged?*’ ask- 
ed Verena, much relieved. 

“Yes, before I had even asked for you.” 

His reply was a little misleading, for Mr. Dogan had only told him 
about Yerena’s share in the transaction. The less creditable side of 
the story had been told him by some kind friend, who had heard of 
his engagement to Mr. Dogan’s daughter. 

“Our friend did not give you his address, I believe,” said Mr. 
Grey, “ and I don’t think he will seek me at my chambers. I rath- 
er wish he would. And now for my own bit of news. I have heard 
of a little place in Surrey which seems just the thing for us. Not 
much more than an hour’s journey from Charing Cross, and in a 
pretty country. I thought I might steal a half -holiday to-morrow, 
as it is Saturday, and run down with you to see it. ” 

“ Oh, that would be nice,” cried Yerena, who was as fond of a day 
in the country as any Sunday-school child. “Is there a good gar- 
den?” 

“ Yery good, from the picture, and a field or two. And how about 
your house in Kensington Garden Terrace?” 

“ I don’t think I care about it.” It was very unreasonable, but 
Yerena had quite turned against the house since she had met Court- 
enay almost at its gates. 

“ Well, I think one house will be quite enough for you to look af- 
ter this year. ” 

“ It has always been my dream to have a cottage in the country.” 

“ And this place calls itself a cottage; in fact, ‘ The Cottage.’ ” 

In her new lightness of heart, Yerena was quite ready to enjoy a 
holiday. She was to meet her husband at Charing Cross, and she 
took pleasure in dressing herself to please him. He disliked black; 
so, instead of the mourning which she had been wearing for Annette, 
she put on a gray costume trimmed with silver braid, and a hat with 
soft gray feathers. “James is so proud of his pretty wife, ’’she 
thought, as she buttoned her long gray gloves, “but he would not 
be proud of me if he knew all.” 

“ Y^ou look very nice, ’’said Emmeline, graciously. Emmeline 
was in good-humor. Her new house kept her amused, and though 
she did not quite approve of Kate’s being married first, yet Kate’s 
house in Wimpole Street offered agreeable possibilities. “But,” 
continued Emmeline, “Mara will be a much handsomer woman than 
you are when she grows up.” 

Yerena smiled a delighted assent. 

“We shall be very proud of Mara when we begin to take her 
out. ” 

She often looked forward to the time when Mara would be a beau- 
tiful girl, and carry off the admiration which she did not want for 
herself. They would be companions then ; the fiction of sisterhood 
would make a more equal apd complete intercourse possible. But 
it would not abrogate the fact of maternity. Mara should have a 
sister’s freedom under a mother’s care. And not a mother’s care 
alone. James '^ou)d be as a father. Yerena knew, though with- 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


143 


out precisely owning it, that lie would be such a protector as she 
herself had never known. 

“ Why, I didn’t know you,” said Mr. Grey, meeting her at the sta- 
tion; “you look like a bride.” 

‘ ‘ I’m rather afraid I do, from the way people look at us. Much 
more like a bride than I did when I really was one. I wonder what 
you would say to my dowdy little black dresses now. ” 

The guard locked their carriage door, perhaps sharing the gener- 
al impression. 

“How nice,” said Verena; “I will always dress in gray when 
we go travelling together.” 

• It was a lovely May day. The fine weather had come at last, and 
everything looked greener for the delay. Verena sat at the open 
window, with the fresh air blowing in her face, noticing everything. 
The buttercups in the fields, the ox-daisies and bluebells on the rail- 
way banks, the occasional glimpse of a bird, unknown in London, 
filled her with delight. 

“ I never want to go abroad again,” she said. “I should^like to 
spend all our holidays wandering about English fields and lanes.” 

“ ‘ Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees 
(If our loves remain) in an English lane,’ ” 

said Mr. Grey. “You can have lanes to your heart’s content if 
we take the cottage.” 

“We will spend all our Sundays there,” cried Verena, thinking 
of a quiet village church where Courtenay could not have the face 
to come. 

“ Here we are,” said Mr. Grey, as they reached a very quiet little 
station. 

“Is the cottage near?” asked Verena. 

“Yes, that is one of its advantages, for me at least.” 

Verena would not hear of a fly. Mr. Grey declared that she 
bolted with him. It was, he said, the story of Atalanta over again. 
If it had not been for the speedwell and campion in the hedges, he 
would not have had a chance in the race. Verena reached the end 
of their ten minutes’ walk with both hands full and a pair of very 
soiled gloves. 

“This must be the place,” said Mr. Grey, stopping before a long, 
low, ivy- covered house: “they have put the best of it in the pict- 
I ure,” he added, looking ruefully at the uninviting aspect it present- 
ed from the road. 

“ Oh, I like it, it looks so old,” said Verena. 

“Old and comfortable are not always convertible terms,” he re- 
I marked. 

! They entered a fairly-sized hall full of the sweet half-flowery, 
il half-indescribable scent that distinguishes a country-house from any 
;i house in town. The old caretaker opened a door to the right, and 
!i they found themselves in a square, low dining-room with a casement 
i boW' window. It looked to the front, and the window wa§ slightly 


144 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


darkened by the ivy. The walls were wainscoted ; Mr. Grey thought 
them rather suggestive of mice. Crossing the hall, their guide led 
the way into the drawing-room, and Verena uttered a cry of delight. 
It was rather a long room with three French windows. A veranda 
covered with laburnum led into a real old-fashioned country garden. 
Verena ran through the window on to the lawn. 

“ The house is very pretty from the back,” she said, looking at 
the long veranda and the bedroom windows embowered in flowers 
and greenery. 

“ This was before the days of lawn-tennis,” said Mr. Grey, look- 
ing at the sloping lawn. Verena ran joyously down the incline, 
hesitating for a moment between the attractions of a paddock full 
of buttercups and daisies and a winding walk which led to a little 
stream. The banks were a picture. Every leaf and twig and flower 
of them seemed marked as distinctly as if in a pre-Raph^aelite draw- 
ing. 

“It’s a trout stream, I’m told,” said Mr. Grey. 

“But we won’t have the poor things caught,” cried Verena, who 
had either learned mercy from Mara or taught it to her. 

There was a plank across the stream, and Verena climbed up the 
bank into a fleld which stood almost on a hill above the garden. 

“Does this belong?” she asked. 

“Yes, this is the whole domain. But do not fall quite in love 
with the garden before we have seen the rest of the house.” 

“This is the best bedroom,” said the old woman, “and this,” 
opening another door, “would make a nice room for the young 
lady.” " 

“ I believe she takes me for your daughter,” remarked Verena, as 
they stood at the window of this room, which she had already as- 
signed to Mara and Lisette. 

“Most people do,” said Mr. Grey, very contentedly. “It is not 
quite such a ridiculous mistake as some one made the other day, 
when they took you for Mara’s mother.” 

“ I did not hear of that,” replied Verena, with a sudden shadow 
falling over her enjoyment. 

‘ ‘ Some one, I won’t tell you who, said that he had seen my wife 
and child in the park. You with a child of six, indeed,” he added, 
looking fondly at the young face under the gray hat. 

His wife and child? If they only had been! Could life ever be 
so blessed as that? 

While Mr Grey inspected the stables, Verena leaned against the 
veranda drawing pictures of the future. Mara would gather but- 
tercups in that field and enjoy the fun of haymaking. She would 
run up and down those gravel paths, and feed chickens and ducks 
in the little farm by the stables. What teas the^ would have on the 
lawn or under the veranda! And how pleasant it would be to walk 
down that pretty lane to the station, and meet James coming down 
by the train. 

“Well,” said Mr. Grey, returning, “we shall have to build and 
improve a little, and I fear we shall not get much good out of the 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


145 


place this year; but I don’t see why we shouldn’t take it, if you like 
it so much. And now let us go and see if anything you will permit 
to be called tea is to be got at that place by the station.” 

“Do you remember the last country-house we looked at?” he 
asked, as they walked up the lane. 

“ The Chateau d’Epreville,” exclaimed Verena, after a moment’s 
pause. 

“ Yes, I remember feeling very much discouraged that day.” 

“ Why, I liked you better than I had ever liked you before! Do 
you remember how you had the grapes cut down, and made a feast 
in the arbor for Mara?” 

And Yerena gave a little sigh as she recalled how her father had 
sat waiting for them, and how he seemed so well that day as to give 
her hope in spite of all the doctors. She could not have believed 
then that Mr. Grey would ever suffice to till the gap, and more. Ye- 
rena would never have been got past all those little gates leading into 
strange pastures if she had not fallen into a tit of musing. But her 
lively mood soon returned, and she got up quite a country appetite 
for their tea. 

“Our train does not go yet,” said Mr. Gre}^, looking at his watch, 
“we might have a drive. I wonder if we could get as far as the 
Deepdene.” 

“Oh yes; never mind our train, I told them not to wait dinner.” 

To a girl unused to English scenery, the Deepdene was a revela- 
tion. And Ye^’ena had a sort of sentiment about her own country. 
All their misfortunes, even her father’s ill-health, seemed partly ac- 
counted for by the transient, uncomfortable, homeless life they had 
led, between one obscure foreign town and another. Perhaps she 
scarcely knew how much wealth, about which she felt no sentiment, 
had helped to smooth life in these later days; any more than she 
realized the fact that in her husband she found, for the. first time, a 
companion whose whole character and tone of thought were con- 
genial to her own. 

“I’ve enjoyed my holiday like a poor East-ender,” remarked Yere- 
na, when they reached home, “and I think my spoils make me look 
rather like one,” she added, glancing at the huge bunch of fiowers 
and grasses, which had been growing under her hands through the 
day. 

Emmeline looked disdainfully at the heap. 

“They are not worth putting in water,” she said. “I wonder 
James let you bring all that rubbish.” 

“Why, I picked more than half of it,” replied he; “it looked 
prettier then than it does now, I confess. But I have been enjoying 
myself like a boy, which is quite as remarkable as for Yerena to en- 
joy herself like an East-ender.” 

“In fact, we have found the place to spend a happy day,” quoted 
Yerena. 

A really happy day ! A day they would both remember. To one 
of them at least no such day could ever be quite the same again, 

10 


146 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“There will be nothing to see, darling. Cousin Kate isn’t go- 
ing to have a wedding-dress, or bridesmaids, or anything. It will 
be just like going to church,” said Yerena. 

“But I’m very fond of going to church,” protested Mara, who 
took most of her tastes from Yerena. Then climbing on the back 
of Yerena’s chair, and laying a curly head coaxingly on her shoulder 
she said, “I want to see Cousin Kate married.” 

Of course Mara prevailed. Perhaps she would consent to sit at 
the back of the church with Lisette. Only the day before, Yerena 
had asked Kate if many people were coming to see her married, and 
Kate had replied, 

‘ ‘ Oh no, we shall have no music, or dresses, or anything to attract, 
Only an ugly bride and a bridegroom who can’t see her. It’s a pity 
we can’t use the Comttst prayer-book, that would be a novelty ; but 
I’m afraid it might affect my legal rights. As it is, I’m in terror lest 
Tom should suddenly demand a conscience clause in the middle of 
the service. There won’t be many people to hear him if he does. 
No one is coming, that I know of, but Mrs. Clifton, and I suppose 
she will drag Mr. Courtenay with her if she can. She is the sort of 
woman who must have a man in her train, if it’s only a brother. ” 

Yerena knew that he would be there. Her husband had to give 
away the bride, and she would be left comparatively unguarded. 
And to have Courtenay sitting through the service scrutinizing 
Mara’s face! 

Yerena dropped Mara with Lisette at the church, bidding them 
get a place in the gallery, under the pretext that they would see bet- 
ter there. Then she drove on to fetch Mrs. Payn and Gertie. Em- 
meline had chosen to follow with her brother in the brougham. It 
was so early that Yerena scarcely expected to find any one ready, 
but Kate was dressed and sitting in the drawing-room with a novel 
in her hand. She wore a plain travelling-dress of navy blue with a 
small bonnet tp match, and looked as if she were just going for a 
walk. Gertie had insisted on pinning a lovely Gloire-de-Dijon rose 
into the front of her dress, but even this was accepted under protest. 

“ I’m ready first,” she remarked; “mother and Gertie are adorn- 
ing and trying to make believe this is a real wedding festivity. How 
did you feel when you were going to be married, Yerena?” 

Yerena might have replied, “Yery miserable;” but it is not al- 
ways expedient to tell the whole truth. 

“I was very excited, of course,” she said. 

“ I’m not. Did you ever hear it was unlucky to be rnarried ip 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


147 


“ Yes ; but I thought you were not superstitious.” 

*‘I ought to be. Do you remember the Wishing- well? I wished 
for a rich husband, and I about as much expected to get one as I ex- 
pected to be made Queen of England. I hope I am not going to get 
my desire and have leanness withal sent into my soul.” 

“ Oh, Kate, will nothing cure you?” 

“ I meant to utter a pious ejaculation. I can’t help running into 
Scriptural phraseology. Mother trained me in it. It’s not always 
an advantage to know the Bible by heart before you are ten years 
old. Mother tried her ’prentice hand on me, and, having failed sig- 
nally, she went much better to work with Gertie.” 

There was a suggestion of real feeling under Kate’s light words. 
But presently she went on, 

“ There’s one thing troubles me.” 

. “What is it?” asked Verena, looking interested. 

“The want of a settlement. It looks as if my Tom wanted to 
bind me over to good behavior. Also as if he couldn’t let money go 
out of his hands.” Then, seeing that the look of sympathy and in- 
terest had faded out of Verena’s face, Kate went on, “There’s a sort 
of goodness about you, Verena, which seems to have been grafted 
on a good deal of original sin.” 

Without actually thinking of the discoveries which she proposed 
to make at Ghent, Kate was giving half-jesting utterance to her sus- 
picion that Verena’s past life had sobered her. 

“ That can’t be James,” said Verena, listening. 

“No, he doesn’t skip up two stairs at a time. Well, Bertie,” as 
he came in, “you look like a bridegroom.” 

“ I wish I was one,” he replied, looking round the roorn as if in 
search of something. 

“ She won’t be long now.” 

Gertie came in as she spoke. Though not allowed to be a bridesr 
maid, she had put on a light summer dress. And Bertie had brought 
her a bouquet. 

“You must take care the clergyman doesn’t marry one of you to 
my Tom by mistake,” said Kate, as her mother joined them, wear- 
ing a white shawl, and what might be described as a suitable face 
for the occasion. 

“Kate doesn’t look much like a bride,” she said, looking ruefully 
at her plain daughter in her plain dress. 

“ Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting 
the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel, ” said 
Kate, severely. 

“True,” said Mrs. Payn, wondering whether the excellent Mr. 
Farquhar had indeed wrought a spiritqal change in her daughter. 
Kate, observing her mother’s melted mood, bpgan, 

‘“You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She.’ll find my curling-tongs upon the bedroom fioor, 

Let her take ’em : they are hers ; I shall curl my fringe no more.’ ’? 


148 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Bertie and I think we might walk to church,” interrupted Ger- 
tie, giving her mother a fond embrace as she saw a puzzled and 
pained look in her face. 

“Wait till next year, Mrs. Payn,” said Bertie; “we will have 
something like a wedding then.” 

“ Tell Tom that I have been sitting waiting for my escort an hour 
at least, so he need not go away if the time is up,” said the bride. 

“I’m sure Kate looks very nice, even if she is not like a bride,” 
said Yerena, oifering consolation to the mother; “and it’s so much 
more sensible to be dressed like that for travelling.” 

For the Farquhars were to start on their travels from the church 
door. 

“Yes, but it doesn’t seem like a wedding,” replied Mrs. Payn. 
“I should like them to have had a wedding-breakfast at least.” 

‘ ‘ I hope Tom will stand something more than a bun at the rail- 
way-station,” observed Kate. “I’m not impatient, Yerena; I dare 
say I shall find my married life quite long enough ; but isn’t it get- 
ting rather near twelve o’clock ?” 

“Oh, here is James. Let us be off at once.” And Yerena hur- 
ried down-stairs to meet Emmeline. “ We must just get in advance 
of the bride,” she said. 

Her quick eyes glanced all over the church directly she entered. 
Yes, there was Courtenay with his sister in a front pew. But she 
could sit in the chancel. Yerena felt herself turn white as she 
walked up the aisle. She was thinking of another wedding cere- 
mony seven years ago. And that man had the insolence to sit there 
and listen to the service in her presence ! 

A little warm hand stole into her own, and Mara’s voice whis- 
pered, “The gallery was locked, but I want to sit with you.” 

Yerena contrived to put her next to Gertie, while she placed her- 
self at the other end of the pew. Her position left her profile ex- 
posed to Courtenay’s view, but it was better he should look at her 
than at Mara. But Gertie had her lover, and Mara found it dull. 
She soon came scrambling over the others to get next to Yerena. 
And then, in a loud stage-whisper, she began, 

“ Yeena, I see the nice man who caught the little duck.” 

“Never mind, darling, people don’t look about them in church.” 

“Oh yes, they do at weddings,” said Mara, who had attended 
several with Lisette. And she began to nod and kiss her hand. 

“ He knows me,” she said, triumphantly, 

“That’s the little girl they say is so like me,” observed Mrs. Clif- 
ton to her brother. 

He had been keeping his eyes fixed on Yerena’s rigid profile. And 
he wondered at the sudden spasm of emotion visible in her face. 
She had only once before looked terrified in his presence — on the day 
when he had surprised her by the fountains. He had not been giv- 
ing much heed to his little friend, but he looked at her now. 

“ Why, so she is!” he remarked, in answer to Mrs' Clifton; “ who 
is she?” 

“Mrs. Grey’s sister.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


149 


But she never had a sister/’ said Courtenay, unguardedly. 

“ How do you know? Her father married his governess, or some- 
thing. ” 

“ Oh, Annette!” Courtenay was certainly off his guard to-day. 

"‘What did you know of her?” asked Mrs. Clifton, looking sur- 
prised. 

‘ ‘ Why, we used to meet her at Folkestone. She was a verv ac- 
cessible person, not at all like Mrs. Grey.” 

‘ ‘ She pretended to be related to us in some way, but she is dead 
now,” said Mrs. Clifton, rather as if the loss of such a relation was 
not unwelcome. 

Courtenay thought that this relationship must have been found 
out very recently, and it rather excited his suspicions. Annette’s 
ingenious falsehood did not serve Verena on this occasion. 

“Has old Grey adopted this child?” he asked. 

“ Yes, and Mrs. Grey dotes on her. She is quite foolish about her, 
Emmeline says.” 

The quiet bride had come up the aisle and taken her place almost 
before they perceived her. But she had diverted Mara’s attention 
from Courtenay, and Verena took care that it should not wander 
back again. 

She tried to interpose herself between the child and the object of 
her dread. She had no thought now of the hollow mockery at 
which she had once assisted with the man who, safe in the fact that 
her husband’s back was turned and his attention engrossed, was 
keeping an unceasing watch upon her. 

“Not that old Grey could interfere, if he did see him,” Courtenay 
said to himself. “The church was open to all, and the bridegroom 
was his sister’s friend. ” 

The service was over. Kate’s sweet voice had repeated every re- 
sponse without a falter. Mr. Farquhar, with his secretary as best 
man watching over him, had gone through his part as well as any 
seeing and believing member of the Church of England. There 
was a little flutter in the pews as the bride and bridegroom entered 
the vestry. 

“I shall just go and kiss the bride,” said Mrs. Clifton to her broth- 
er. “ Will you come?” 

“ To kiss the bride? No, I think not.” 

Verena did not mean to go into the vestry. She had seen Mrs. 
Clifton pass, and thought that Courtenay might follow if he had an 
inducement. But Kate sent Mr. Grey to fetch her. 

“I shall only be away a minute,” she told Mara; “sit here till I 
come back, my pet.” 

And she gave the child her bouquet to play with. She left her 
sitting on a hassock at the bottom of the pew, safely out of sight. 

But Mara had no intention of staying in the pew. She would go 
and And Lisette. And it needed very little encouragement to make 
her stray out of her way to speak to ‘ ‘ the nice man who had caught 
the little duck.” 

“How old are you, little one?” he asked. 


150 


A DAtJGHTEE OP THE GOBSi 


Six this month,” said Mara, proud of her newly-acquired yeaf. 

“And whose little girl are you?” 

‘ ‘ My maman is in heaven, ” she replied, gravely. 

“Poor little girl, then you have no one to love you!” 

Mara did not quite like this. 

“ Veena loves me,” she said, “better than maman ever did. Li- 
sette^says so.” 

Lisette had come up to speak for herself. Mr. Courtenay turned 
to her with some compliment on the child’s beauty. 

“Mrs. Grey is very fond of her, I suppose?” 

“Ah, but she adores her.” 

He had one more question to ask, and time was short. 

“She looks like a little French girl,” he said; “do you know if 
she was born in France?” 

“ Ho, at Ghent, monsieur.” 

This answer would have astonished Lisette’s late mistress not a 
little, though she had herself let the fact out. 

“ Tell Mrs. Grey,” said Courtenay, speaking slowly, “ that her lit- 
tle sister is the prettiest child I ever saw. Mrs. Clifton and I are 
quite proud of her likeness to ourselves.” 

He put something into Lisette’s hand which made her smile and 
courtesy. But she did not remember that message word for word as 
he intended. It resolved itself into a compliment on Mara’s beauty, 
and the statement that she looked like a little French girl. 

Verena, escaping from the vestry, had rushed back to her pew. 
Her bouquet lay reversed on the floor, but there was no Mara! 

And there in the middle aisle stood the child making one of a lit- 
tle group which comprised Courtenay. But even as she looked 
Courtenay turned and passed down the aisle towards the door, while 
Mara ran forward to meet the bride. And when Verena passed out 
with her husband she did not see Courtenay looking at her with a 
triumphant smile as if he had guessed her secret. Had the moment 
she feared come and passed without bringing revelation ? She 
believed it had, and felt as if she need never be so fearful again. 
Verena did not know that Courtenay was preparing to spring a 
mine upon her. He would not risk failure by a premature venture. 
At present he had only suspicion to go upon. He meant soon to 
have facts. In the mean time he let Verena go in peace. 

With a somewhat relieved mind she went back with Mrs. Payn, 
who had made a small attempt at a wedding-breakfast, to which 
Mara was especially invited. There was a wedding-cake, though 
there was no bride to cut it. The three who should have been 
bridesmaids were allowed to enjoy that privilege. There was a dis- 
cussion as to how the rest of this broken day should be spent. Ber- 
tie proposed South Kensington, where one of those exhibitions in- 
tended to sweeten knowledge was going on, but every one thought 
that it would be crowded on a Saturday. 

“It would be nice to go where we could get a breath of fresh 
air,” said Verena, looking longingly at the blue sky above the oppo- 
site houses. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


151 


‘ ‘ Suppose we drive to Richmond, and dine at the ‘ Star and Gai- 
ter, ’ ” suggested Mr. Grey. 

‘ ‘ I have not dined at Richmond since my dear sister was alive, 
said Mrs. Payn, “and you gave us a dinner when you took silk,, 
James.” 

“Then I’m sure it is time you dined there again,” replied he^ 
‘ ‘ for that is twelve years ago. ” 

“Gertie and I can go by train,” said Bertie, remembering that 
his beloved disliked driving back to horses. 

“And the barouche will just hold us four,” added Emmeline. 

“ Me too!” cried poor little Mara, who did not at all like the idea 
of being sent back to a dull tea with Lisette. 

“ She must go, she was disappointed of being bridesmaid,” said 
Gertie, turning back at the door to intercede for her pet. 

“Oh yes, do take Mara,” added Bertie, Supporting Gertie. 

‘ ‘ There will be no room for her, ” said Emmeline, who did not 
want to have her new dress crushed. 

“Oh, she can sit on my lap, and you shall have the back seat 
with Aunt Kate,” exclaimed Yerena; “but you must ask Uncle 
James,” she said to the child, backing the petition by a most elo- 
quent entreaty from her own eyes. She felt as if she had been 
snubbing the unconscious child all the morning, and could not bear 
to leave her out in the cold now. Mr. Grey thought that Mara 
would have been better at home, but he could not resist that look. 

“Well, if ‘ Yeena ’ says ‘ yes,’ you may go,” he said, laughingly. 

Mara did not wait to go through the empty form of asking 
‘ ‘ Y eena.” She only clapped her hands and ran away to make Lisette 
dress her. 

Mr. Grey went to order the carriage, and then Emmeline’s anger 
broke out. 

“How ridiculously you do spoil that child, Yerena. It’s just ask 
and have with Mara. It’s very bad for her. And she’ll feel it all 
the more when you put her aside. ” 

“I shall never put Mara aside,” cried Yerena, almost fiercely. 

Mrs. Payn smiled and shook her head with an air of superior 
wisdom. 

“Ah, my dear, you don’t know what a child of your own is!” 

“If you don’t, James will, ” cried ^Emmeline, putting Yerena’s 
worst fears into words. At that mornent the unconscious subject 
of their discussion came back. 

“You naughty Aunt Emmie, go and put on your bonnet,” she 
cried, running up to Emmeline, who was always rather a long time 
dressing. 

Her innocent glee, her air of good-fellowship would have softened 
a heart of stone, which Emmeline was very far indeed from pos- 
sessing. She patted the child’s rosy face, and, turning to Yerena, 
whispered, hastily, “You know I mean nothing unkind to Mara; 
I’m very fond of her.” Then she obeyed Mara’s orders, and con- 
trived to be ready in time. 

But Mara was already standing on the carriage-seat talking to old 


152 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


Forder about the deer in Richmond Park. Perhaps it was in conse- 
quence of this that they drove to the “ Star and Garter ” by the pret- 
tiest though by no means the shortest route, across Barnes Common 
and through Sheen Gate to the Park. Emmeline was very gracious. 
She made Verena sit by Aunt Kate, and even offered to relieve her 
of the burden of Mara. But Verena kept the child, pressing her to 
her heart with the passionate love which was almost a pain. She 
was tired, her husband thought. She did not look about her and 
notice things as she had done the day they went to the cottage. 
Yet never had grass and trees been greener, or laburnum and haw- 
thorn trees looked more lovely than on this drive to Richmond. 
There was a strained, anxious expression in Verena’s face and a 
look of fear in her beautiful eyes which puzzled Mr. Grey sorely. 

But Mara missed nothing and felt nothing amiss. “ Veena'’ lis- 
tened to all her little undercurrent of talk, and looked at everything 
that pleased her, from the tiny kid tethered on Brook Green to the 
first group of deer in Richmond Park. Mara basked in the soft at- 
mosphere of a mother’s love without comprehending it, just as she 
felt the blueness of the sky and the freshness of the air, and the 
beauty of everything without realizing it. 

At Richmond Gate stood Gertie and Bertie waiting for them. 
Happy Gertie! the sunshine of the day was in her face and in her 
heart, Verena thought. She was older than Verena, yet fresh and 
untried as Mara. To her the full sweetness of a woman’s life had 
come. She could give her past, as well as her present and her fut- 
ure, to her lover. Not only a true heart, but an unsoiled hand were 
hers to give. If children came to Gertie, she could glory in them 
before the world as a heritage and gift of the Lord ; she would not 
have to bury her love and pride in her own heart; there would be 
no bitter sense. of rivalry between child and child. There was no 
bitterness or envy in Verena’s nature. She felt it sweet to see a life 
so fair and complete. She looked smilingly at the happy mother of 
this happy girl. 

“Gertie has grown prettier than ever since her engagement,” she 
said. 

But Mrs. Payn was not thinking of the sunny side just then. She 
was thinking of that distant home in India for which her favorite 
child was destined. 

“ What shall I do when she leaves me?” she said. 

“You will have me,” said Emmeline, laying her plump hand ca- 
ressingly on her aunt’s. 

“You will be a great comfort to me, my dear.” 

Mrs. Payn seemed really glad to have Emmeline. Verena looked 
at her and wondered whether old people were less easily bored than 
young ones. 

The lovers had walked away under the trees. Mrs. Payn and 
Emmeline were sitting on the terrace, and Mr. Grey was casting 
about in his mind for something to amuse Mara without tiring 
Verena. 

“ Should you like to go on the river?” he asked. 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


153 


“In a little boat,” explained Yerena, waiting to see if the idea 
took Mara’s fancy. Being something new, it was caught at. 

Mr. Grey had pulled in the middle of his boat for two years at 
Oxford; he took the sculls himself. There was only time for a 
very short row, and Mara thought it delightful. 

Then came dinner at a little round table in the window with 
many courses new and strange to the child, who enjoyed herself so 
thoroughly that Mr. Grey, and even Emmeline, reconsidered their 
opinion as to the wisdom of bringing her. 

But Mara was fast asleep when they drove home. She was 
wrapped in a shawl and lay closely folded in her mother’s arms. 
No need for the mother to keep her ears open for childish chatter 
now, or her eyes open for the little kids and deer, and the thousand 
things that Mara would make her look at as they came. She could 
think her own disturbing thoughts in peace, and wonder whether 
Courtenay would remember the child’s face, and whether Kate 
would find the old landlady at the Quai des Moines. 

But Yerena never guessed that Courtenay was himself starting 
that night for Ghent, travelling straight through, and getting well 
in advance of the bride and bridegroom. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“Well, what does Kate say? you look very pleased,” said Mr. 
Grey, a week or so after the wedding. 

Yerena looked up from the letter she was reading. Some of the 
brightness of the morning seemed to be in her face. A great load 
had just been taken off her heart. 

“ It is a very Kate-like letter,” she said; and began to read. 

“ Hotel de Vienne, Ghent. 

“My dear Yerena, — I find my honey-moon very slow. Per- 
haps as a married woman you can tell me if this is usual. Do you 
happen to remember whether James bored you horribly at first?” 

(“I am afraid he did,” interrupted James. 

“ No, never,” replied his wife; and went on.) 

“It would console me if he did, as you are such a happy couple.” 

(“That is true at least,” remarked Yerena.) 

‘ ‘ My Tom is like a guide-book, and I am required to furnish the 
illustrations. I tell him he will soon wear out my eyes if he always 
makes me see for two. (As a fit division of labor, I wish he could 
contrive to exercise the sense of smelling for two — at least in these 
old Belgian towns. Could you recall the peculiar fragrance?) 

“ Tom is sitting very close to me, and appears to be looking over 
my shoulder. He is asking me what I am writing, and I am giving 
him a chatised version. He is so devoted, you cannot think. I of- 
ten wish I was not so awfully nice. I h^ a great disappointment 


154 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


at 14 Quai des Moines. The house has changed hands within the 
last six months. I asked for Madame Braun’s address, and the 
stupid old Belgian woman (I have no patience with the Belgians) 
said she had given it to a gentleman who called last week. Fancy 
giving away an address and never taking a copy. And she could 
not tell me a thing! I am longing to be back in Wimpole Street. 
Even Ostend was dreary, and Bruges is the dullest hole. It would 
be some consolation if Tom showed any desire to clothe me in 
Brussels lace, but he does not. He was not even to be had at the 
Beguinage. They had caught the wrong customer that time. It 
was horribly against his jflinciples to go there at all, but he wanted 
to hear the music ; also I think to lay a foundation for comments 
upon ancient and pernicious superstitions. I have got to write his 
letters too for my sins, so good-by. If j^ou can write a funny gos- 
sipy letter, I shall be glad to have it ; but I am not going to be lect- 
ured now that I can say I am a married woman. 

“Your affectionate 

“Kate Farquhar.” 

Verena inwardly blessed the man who had carried off Madame 
Braun’s address, not knowing that it was Courtenay who had been 
beforehand with Kate. He had travelled off in search of the clew, 
and found it at last. Madame Braun had shown him the picture 
which, by aid of fleeting glances and the intense memory of a born 
impressionist, her dead boy had painted. He had never been able 
to get his picture exhibited, and, looking at it as a work of art, 
Courtenay could scarcely feel surprised. But it was Verena’s face 
on the canvas before him.^ Verena was the lovely young mother 
whose child had been born in Madame Braun’s house six years be- 
fore. Courtenay could read between the lines of the story which 
the old woman told. In the daughter of the Anglais he recognized 
Annette. The daughter-in-law was of course Verena. There was 
another character — an absent son of monsieur, fighting in South 
Africa. In him Courtenay at once detected a fiction, raised up be- 
cause a husband of some sort must be found for Verena. Perhaps 
Madame Braun might not have remembered all the circumstances 
so well if the youth and singular beauty of the anxious girl-mother 
had not stamped them on her mind. The evidence of the surrep- 
titious portrait had remained unknown to the father, who had laid 
his plans so carefully and screened his daughter as he thought from 
all observation. Courtenay had bought the picture, offering a price 
which overcame even the mother’s sentimental reluctance. He did 
not want the secret to become common property — it should be his, 
to hold as a sword over Verena. 

Unconscious of the new danger which threatened her, Verena re- 
joiced in her escape from Kate. She had missed Courtenay from 
the Temple church two Sundays — she had not seen him during the 
week, and it seemed as if his persecution was flagging. There was 
no Kate to tell her about him, and Emmeline was too full of her 
house to think of Mrs. Clifton or any one else. She had taken Kate’s 


A DAUGHTliE Of THE GODS. 


155 


vacant place in the Bayswater lodging, so as to be nearer the scene 
of action. Verena and Mara were left to their own devices, and 
spent the long summer days in drives to Hampstead and Highgate 
and more distant suburbs, where they could put up the carriage 
and ramble about in the fresh air among fields and flowers. But 
Kate’s visit to Ghent had hung like a cloud over these pleasant 
days ; now it was removed, and the sun shone bright and clear over 
Verena’s head. 

“I wish I could stay and make holiday with you,” said Mr. Grey, 
looking wistfully at the trees which were fresh and green even in 
Russell Square. 

“ Can’t you stay and play— must you go and make bread and but- 
ter?” asked Mara, clinging to his coat-tails. 

For answer Mr. Grey turned and tossed her high up in the air in 
the way she loved. And Verena, looking on, wondered jealously 
whether a child of his own would some day drive her darling from 
his heart. 

Perhaps some such thought passed through his own mind as he 
set the child down, kissing her' with something more than his usual 
tenderness. Then he reluctantly tore himself away. 

“ Oh, gift of God ! oh, perfect day ! 

Whereon shall no man work but play,” 

sang Verena, tossing Mara in her arms in feeble imitation of her hus- 
band. 

'‘We must go into the country to-day. Where shall we go, Mara?” 

“ Oh, Richmond,” cried Mara. 

“ And have tea at the ‘ Star and Garter,’ and take a walk in the 
Park?” 

“ And show Lisette the deer,” cried Mara, joyfully. 

Then they sat down to what they were pleased to call lessons. 
Since Mara had turned six years old, Verena had tried to make these 
lessons a little less like play. Remembering her own attainments at 
that age, she felt rather shocked at Mara’s deficiencies. Mara was a 
quick child, no one could deny that. She could remember little 
stories and bits of poetry and anything that amused her — her remarks 
were usually to the point, and she showed what some thought an 
undesirable aptitude for understanding the conversation of her el- 
ders. But her intelligence did not run readily into the appointed 
educational grooves, and she hated drudgery. 

“ Think how nice it will be to read little stories for yourself,” Ve- 
rena would say, offering an inducement which had proved all-pow- 
erful with herself. 

But Mara did not want to read for herself. She liked Verena to 
read to her, and to furnish a running commentary, and the commen- 
tary was often to her the best part of the book. She saw no fun in 
letters or little words, still less in pothooks or hangers. Yet she 
rather liked that hour with Verena, when she was supposed to be 
laying the foundation of an English education. Emmeline had per- 
mitted herself a few remarks on the non-advancement of Mara’s 


156 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


learning. She said that Verena had no system. Mara found this 
absence of system very much to her taste. 

Verena tried to set to work in a business-like way. She placed a 
little heap of chocolate creams, which were to be the reward of virt- 
ue, just out of reach; she seated Mara in a high chair, and put books 
and an illustrated alphabet before her. The alphabet was a new 
one, composed entirely of beasts with whom the Zoo had made Mara 
familiar. 

“This is a bear,” said Mara; and proceeded to give a short account 
of the manners and habits of that animal gathered from the text of a 
favorite picture-book. It was nice to find a child remember her 
natural history so well, but spelling was the matter in hand. And 
nothing would induce' Mara to combine the bear with an ape and a 
tiger to form the simple word “bat.” 

“Now look,” said Verena, making the word herself, “and remem- 
ber next time.” 

“Make me a word with this,” said Mara, taking a lion. 

Verena set herself zealously to make little w^ords beginning with 
L. Lap, lad, lip, lid, pronouncing and expounding the while. 

“Now roar,” said Mara. “You don’t roar like Uncle James,” 
siie added, when her teacher had weakly yielded to this unscholar- 
like demand. “Do roar again,” enforcing her request by an em- 
brace. “Again,” she repeated, approvingly, as if the aim of this 
hour’s instruction was to perfect Verena in roaring. 

By these and similar devices Mara got through the hour very 
pleasantly. Then she stretched out her hand to the chocolate creams 
which she had done very little to earn, asked if she had not been a 
very good girl, and trotted away to be dressed for her walk. 

V erena put away the letters rather thoughtfully. W ould Mara ever 
learn to read and write and spell at this rate? And she had set her 
heart on teaching her always. Mara was never to go to school. She 
had herself been educated for a governess, and Mara should have the 
benefit. Even now, though systematic reading had become a habit 
with her, the hope of fitting herself to develop Mara’s powers was an 
additional spur. But, if Mara grew up with her present distaste for 
lessons, how should she ever have the heart to make her attend to 
them. She could remember bright mornings when she had herself 
longed to be out with Annette and Mara, while her father kept her 
close to books, checking any inattention by the stern reminder that 
she might some day have to earn bread for herself and the child. It 
was right enough for herself, but to think of Mara being kept hard 
at work, to think of Mara ever having to contemplate the possibility 
of working for her bread. She was safe from that. Yet it was not 
Verena herself, it was Verena’s father who had compelled the step 
which saved Mara from that risk. He had, in his superior wisdom, 
chosen a way for his child even when her will rebelled against it. 
Was it so that parents should in truth deal with their children? Mr. 
Dogan had kept the baby Mara in some sort of discipline during the 
first few years of her life. He had not trusted her wholly to the real 
mother, who adored her, or to the professed mother, who alternate- 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


15Y 


1y neglected and weakly indulged her. Yerena had never been al- 
lowed to manage her own child till she married Mr. Grey. She re- 
membered that she was a young mother— a very young mother for 
a child of six. And she wondered if she was really injudicious and 
spoiled the child, as Emmeline so often said. But Mara was so good ! 
She might plead and coax for her own way, but on the rare occa- 
sions when it was denied she did not scream or break into ill-tem- 
pered tears. She had, in truth, perfect faith in Yerena’s good-will, 
and, if Yerena said that a thing could not be, she recognized a sort 
of law of necessity. 

No sharp word had ever fallen from those loving lips. In her 
early days, when she was sometimes punished, Mara had known that 
“ Yeena ” was her fellow-sufferer. Since she had come wholly under 
that gentle rule she never doubted that “Yeena” felt glad and sorry 
with her, she was even learning with the instinct of affection to bear 
disappointment better for “ Yeena’s” sake. If Yerena ruled Mara it 
would be by the law of love, and she thought, thankfully, that nat- 
ure had given the child a sweet temper and a tender heart. 

Sometimes— not often — Yerena’s starved, repressed youth would 
assert itself ; she would throw off care, if only for a few hours, and 
feel a light - hearted, careless girl. She had had such moods at 
I^olkestone; she had one to-day. Having made up her mind that 
Mara was too good to be spoiled, and too clever ever to be a dunce, 
she gave herself up to the pleasure of the hour. 

She might have sung the last words of her morning song; 

“Oh, heart of man, canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free ?” 

After their walk and early dinner, thej^ had a scramble to get away 
for their drive before three o’clock. Yerena made a great point of 
this, lest callers should delay their start, and occupy some of the 
precious afternoon hours. 

“ Perhaps we had better go by the nearest way,” said Yerena to 
her coachman, remembering that Richmond must in any case be a 
long drive from Russell Square. 

Hammersmith Bridge with the water and the boats furnished some 
excitement, but then came a dreary bit of road where it taxed Yere- 
na’s ingenuity to find objects of interest for Mara. Suddenly they 
came close to the water’s edge at Mortlake. The river was spar- 
kling in the sunlight; a few boats were dotted about. One lay empty 
and inviting on tlie beach close to them, with a waterman beside it. 

“ Oh, do let us go in a boat,” cried Mara, recalling the recent de- 
lights of Richmond. “ Wouldn’t 5^ou like to go in a boat, Lisette?” 

Lisette in her heart had no appetite for the proposed treat, the water 
frightened her; but she was ashamed to confess her fears, and Mara 
was bent on playing mistress of the ceremonies to a new pleasure. 

“It would take us too long,” said Yerena; “you wouldn’t like 
not to go to Richmond and see the deer.” Then what she called a 
happy thought struck her. “ How long would it take us to row to 
Richmond, Forder?” she asked, 


158 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“Well, ma’am, it depends on the tide, whether it serves, ’’said the 
man. 

“ Oh, I’m sure it serves,” cried Mara, who was beginning to find 
the carriage irksome. 

The waterman had approached, seeing the carriage stop. He 
promised that everything should serve. Verena got out, told the 
coachman to drive on and meet them at the “ Star and Garter,” then 
seated herself with Mara and Lisette in the boat. The child clapped 
her hands as they pushed off into the bright dancing water. 

“ I see a little steamboat,” cried Verena, looking ahead. 

Mara sat up bright and alert to watch the steamboat. They had 
scarcely got past the houses on Mortlake beach when they met it. 
The launch, for such it was, driven at the rate of twelve miles an 
hour, never swerved an inch. So close did it come that the water- 
man only saved his scull by throwing it out of the rowlock. The 
wash of the venomous little craft splashed over the gunwale, and Lis- 
ette with a shriek sprang to her feet insane with terror. Verena 
heard the man’s cry of “ Sit down,” felt the boat rock, and then knew 
only that she was clasping Mara with one hand, feeling vainly for 
support with her feet, and clutching with the other hand at an im- 
palpable, translucent substance which roared and bubbled in her ears 
and filled her throat. She was conscious for an instant of painful 
oppression in her head and chest, conscious above all that her right 
arm was twined with desperate force round Mara’s body, half con- 
scious of a painful grasp upon her neck, and then oblivious. 

Above, the place had started into frantic life. The owner of the 
steam-launch fled as fast as steam could take him from the scene of 
the accident. The coachman ran at speed to the “White Hart,” 
shouting as he ran for help. The groom, though scarcely able to 
swim across a London bath, had thrown himself, without removing 
coat or boots, into the water, in the vain hope of reaching the cap- 
sized boat. The pleasure- craft around were hurrying to the spot. 
Men found Lisette well-nigh insensible with fear, but clinging to the 
keel; the boatman, treading water, kept Verena’s lifeless head just 
above the surface. With difficulty the insensible forms of the moth- 
er and child were lifted into a boat. Forder waited to see them 
brought ashore, and then, scarcely knowing whether they were alive 
or dead, rushed off and telegraphed to his master. He wrote the 
first words that occurred to him : ‘ ‘ Come at once. Mrs. Grey has. 
met with an accident on the river.” 

It was a cruel message ; it told so little, it left the worst to be sup- 
posed. It went on its way as Mr, Grey was finishing a long battle 
in court. He had got a verdict against a political celebrity, and had 
fought inch by inch to do it. In high good-humor, he came down 
the great hall side by side with Moffatt, his junior. At the gates in 
the Strand his clerk, who had stopped behind to gather up books 
and papers, hurried to his side. 

‘ ‘ Both consultations are off, sir ; they’ve compromised in Bailey 
and Bailey.” 

“Well, but why is \t off in Raymond’s case?’’ 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


159 


''It’s a conference, sir, but Mr. Clifford the solicitor is not very 
well.” 

" Oh, very good, then I sha’n’t come to chambers.” 

He already saw himself taking Mara to one of those treats which 
her presence made so much more delightful to Verena, and therefore 
to himself. As he turned his face westward, Bird interrupted him 
again. 

“I beg pardon, sir, here’s Henry with a telegram.” 

A younger clerk was hurrying through the stream of carts and 
omnibuses with a yellow envelope in his hand. 

“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Moffatt, looking anxiously at the 
fixed white face with which his friend read Border’s message. 

With clinched lips Mr. Grey nodded silently; then raised his hand 
to stop a passing cab. 

“Waterloo.” 

Moffatt, looking after the cab, saw only Mr. Grey’s fist resting on 
the doors of the cab, the knuckles gleaming white through the strain- 
ed skin. 

“Mrs. Grey is safe, sir,” were the words with which his servant 
greeted him on the platform of Mortlake station. 

It was almost worth bearing the suffering to know the relief. Yet 
Ml) Grey could not feel that Verena was safe. And the man’s face 
was scarcely reassuring. 

“We diinot quite know at first, sir,” continued the man, as if 
apologizing for the cruel telegram. “ They were both insensible at 
first — she— and — the little lady.” 

There was a break in his voice, and Mr. Grey knew how it was 
with the little lad}^ He had thought of no one but Verena till then; 
now a fresh grief smote him. It was not like the awful sense of 
misery and desolation which had overwhelmed him for the last hour, 
yet the pang was very sharp, and he felt it for another more intoler- 
ably than for himself. 

Visions of Mara rose before him — Mara in quaint dresses and large 
bonnets such as Verena loved to deck her with — Mara with the 
starry eyes and rose-bud face which had caught his fancy on that 
first day in the Rue des Pipots— Mara laughing and clinging to him 
that very morning. 

And suddenly there flashed across him a piteous picture of a child 
crying over a dead kitten, and Verena imploring him not to tell that 
the poor thing had died a violent death. 

“ Does Mrs. Grey know?” he asked. 

“No, sir, they kept it from her till you came. They told her — 
anything,” said the man, who had not imagination enough to frame 
the plausible falsehoods which had mercifully imposed on Verena. 

“ How did it happen?” 

Through that dismal journey he had been vaguely wondering how 
an accident on the river should befall the wufe whom he had left 
safe in Russell Square. Now he reproached himself that he had 
never uttered a word of caution. He would not have trusted them 
on the water except in his o^yn company, but the question of theif 


160 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


going alone had never arisen. And then the thought flashed through 
him that Verena must never know, never even dream, that any im- 
prudence of hers had contributed ever so little to bring this about. 

How would she bear it? how could he ever be cruel enough to 
tell her? There was no pleasure in meeting Verena now. No com- 
fort in seeing the sweet pale face break into a smile as he came in. 
He felt as if he were bringing her death-blow. 

“I hope you were not frightened,’' she said. 

“I was very much frightened,” he replied, bending over her; 

they only told me you had had an accident.” 

“ Poor James! but we are all right, you see. You are not angry 
with me for going in a boat?” There was an anxious, eager look in 
her blue eyes, as if even the thought of having risked Mara’s life 
was dreadful. 

“Certainly not,” he replied, with an assurance that might have 
satisfied any doubts, “no one could have expected such an accident.” 

“Now, go and see Mara, and if you would only bring her to me. 
I could go to her quite well, but they make me so dreadfully careful 
— not for myself.” 

“No, for me,” he cried, though he knew she did not mean that; 
“promise me to be careful for my sake. Remember you are my 
love, my life, Verena,” he cried, passionately. 

It was so seldom he allowed himself any demonstration of his love 
for her, he had always repressed its outward expression since the 
early days when he had felt it would only repel the reserved girl. 
But it rang out now in the thrill of his voice. He almost wondered 
at her calmness about Mara. But her false security was partly 
founded on truth. They had told her how she and the child had 
been taken out together clasped in each other’s arms, and the same 
means used to revive both. And they told her, as she had said, that 
there was especial need for care in her own case. But the others 
must be kept warm in bed; they were in different rooms of the small 
inn and well cared for. 

‘ ‘ They are very kind, but I want you to be with Mara. She must 
want some of us, poor child. Though she always makes friends,” 
she added, with a smile. “ She is in the next room. I tried to call 
to her across the passage, but they told me I must not exert myself. 
But she is quite safe; the^ told me again and again she was safe,” 
cried Verena, her voice rising with a sudden fear. 

But Mr. Grey had turned and crossed the passage, glad to hide the 
looks which might betray him. He could not face his wife with 
lies as the others had done. 

Safe! Mara was indeed safe! safe from all the reproach that her 
unhappy mother feared for her. Verena had prayed for a happy 
life for her darling, and the years of unclouded happiness were al- 
most over. Mara’s life had been as a happy dream. Verena had 
never wearied of commending her fatherless child to the care of her 
Father in heaven. With a heart wrung by her own bitter experi- 
ence, she had besought Him to keep her treasure unspotted from the 
world. All spotless and stainless. He had taken her to Himself, 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


161 


But Mr. Grey thought no such thoughts. He only knew that the 
desire of his wife’s eyes had been taken from her at a stroke, and 
wondered what words he could find to break the calamity to her 
without breaking her heart. 

Kind strange hands had laid the child to rest. Kind strange eyes 
had Tvept in a very luxury of woe over “ the pity of it.” But Mr. 
Grey had no tears to shed. He stood like stone thinking how Ye- 
rena would bear to look on this strange, like, yet awfully unlike, 
image of Mara, lying wrapped in its chill repose. 

He did not hear the slow, faltering step of a woman who could 
scarcely drag herself from her bed, yet could not rest away from her 
darling — a woman who had followed him with a vague sense of fear 
dawning upon her — who had stolen out like a thief lest she should 
be seen and turned back. Suddenly — without any warning — a sharp 
cry of agony rang through his ears, and he turned and caught Yere* 
na, falling, in his arms. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Life without Mara seemed impossible to Yerena. For six years 
she had only lived in and for Mara. Mara’s happiness, Mara’s wel- 
fare, everything had been referred to these. Through the years when 
other girls are seeking their own pleasures, Yerena had known only 
a vicarious enjoyment through Mara. Mara had come to save her 
from despair ; Mara was gone, and despair wholly ' possessed her 
again. It was well for Yerena that the blow fell when she believed 
that her life was at the most bounded by a few months. 

Tender love surrounded her, such love as might have reconciled 
most women to life. Through the days of illness, when a conscious 
pain seemed the only consciousness left her, her husband watched 
over her, scarcely daring to trust to the doctor’s assurances that she 
was young and strong enough to struggle through. He tended her 
day and night. He listened to her wanderings, which were not al- 
ways so senseless as he supposed. Her little sister seemed confused 
with her expected child in her bewildered brain. There was one 
form of words that she often repeated. And the tone in which she 
uttered that unmeaning refrain almost broke his heart. 

“ She never called me mother! she never called me mother!” 

“How was she found? Tell me the truth,” was one of Yereaa’s 
first rational questions. It was a comfort to find that she had never 
loosed her hold. There had been no horrible moment when Mara 
was whirling through the dark cold water alone. She must have 
known that “ Yeena’s ” arms were round her. 

Yerena was carried back to her home and Mara to her grave at 
Boulogne. With Bertie for her mourner she was laid in the lonely 
grave which Yerena had wished to share. Mr. Grey had done what 
he believed Yerena would have wished. And she knew that it was 
well, There was no little grave in a suburban cemetery where she 

11 


162 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


could sit and weep day after day. She knew that, too, was well. 
Her father would have had it so. He had thrown his protection 
over the child while he lived. It still rested over her in death. 
Those two lay together under the church-yard roses. Perhaps before 
many months were passed she might lie there too. 

Had Yerena no thought for the husband who had told her she 
was his life — who proved the truth of his words by his tender care, 
by his loving pity and sympathy — even though he felt they had 
no power to console? 

There was no comfort for Yerena in her husband’s love; it had no 
power to soothe her pain ; for she must put it from her. After the 
first shock of Mara’s death, when she had once fully realized the 
truth, Yerena had made up her mind to tell her husband all. She 
had never meant to screen herself. There was no one else to screen 
now. The confession had been delayed till it must cost her such pain 
as she had once thought it impossible for her to suffer except through 
Mara. For it was her crowning sorrow to love her husband. And 
to lose his trust would be the very sting of death. If she delayed 
her confession now by a day, it was from no want of resolve. She 
could not suffer more when it was told than she did while the reve- 
lation hung over her. But it seemed almost cowardly to throw her- 
self on her husband’s mercy when he was guarding her very life so 
anxiously. One day she felt weaker than usual. She thought she 
read fear in the faces of those around her, and a new, awful terror 
seized her. To die with her secret untold — her one atonement un- 
made! Unconfessed, unforgiven to go into the presence of — ah, no! 
— to wander an exile forever from the presence of Mara. 

Yerena sent Lisette away that she might be alone with her hus- 
band. Poor Lisette’s occupation was gone, and she found no com- 
fort save in being allowed to wait on her mistress. But she went. 
With some inexplicable sense of vague apprehension, Mr. Grey stood 
beside his wife in the solitude which she claimed. He saw her 
troubled face, and laid his hand gently on her head. 

“If I could only comfort you; but perhaps some day a child of 
your own — ” 

“A child of my own!” Yerena almost shrieked. “Oh, James, 
Mara was my child. My own child — oh, my little child! oh, my 
little child!” she cried, beating the coverlet with her hands, and for- 
getting everything in the bitter sense of loss. 

Mr. Grey stood dumb. But the telegram had been as nothing to 
this blow. Yerena’s eyes were hidden. She did not see the clinch- 
ing of his hands and the thrill which shook him from head to foot. 
For a moment he reeled as if about to fall. 

Presently Yerena looked up, and a new cry of pain broke from 
her as she saw his face. For the stricken woman had forgotten that 
she might break his heart. She clasped her hands. All the love he 
had once hungered for shone from her eyes. 

“Oh, forgive me !” then, a sudden light breaking on her, with 
something like passion she cried, “ I was not guilty. I thought I 
was married.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


163 


She wanted no voice or words then. She told all — all but the 
man’s name. He would know that. With tenderness born not only 
of pity, but of love unshaken by her cruel revelation, he checked the 
torrent of pleading and exculpation. “ Forgive! could there be any 
question of forgiveness between them?” 

Confessed — absolved — relieved of what seemed a life-long load, 
Verena lay back with something like peace dawning on the face 
which seemed to keep nothing of earth save sorrow. But she had 
not quite done with this world yet. She felt that to die now would 
be to kill forever her husband’s Verena. Every recollection of their 
happy married life would be marred by its association with her de- 
ceit. She would leave a memory stained and dishonored to imbit- 
ter grief. There was no such sting in all her sorrow for Mara. He 
had told her to live for his sake. And she w^ould try to live, to blot 
out the past, and atone for it. 

And the husband? The deceit which was in truth Vereua’s one 
sin was as nothing to him in comparison with the fact it concealed. 
A glory had gone from the head he loved. Strong in her conscious- 
ness of injured rectitude, Verena had perhaps never quite realized 
the depth of her own undeserved degradation. She would from 
the first have faced the situation openly if her father had not been 
more worldly-wise than herself. It never even occurred to the sim- 
ple, straightforward girl that few people might accept her story just 
as she told it. But in her husband this confidence was justified. He 
not only knew that Verena spoke truth; he felt that she could not 
have fallen, as weaker women might fall, with open eyes. 

Verena took the whole burden of her own deceit. She laid no 
blame on her dead father, and she did not plead her love for Mara. 
But her husband knew that she had sacrificed herself for her child. 
He had not made duty difficult to her, but he was not a man to think 
of that. He knew that Verena had endeavored to seem loving till 
there was no longer any need to seem. For she loved him now as 
he well knew, and he felt what her confession must have cost her. 
And instantly there sprang up in his mind one dominant resolution 
— that she should never know what it cost him. She had caught 
the first look in his face. Never again should word or look betray 
what he suffered. He did not love his wife less — perhaps in his in- 
tense pity he even loved her more. It was no fresh young girl whom 
he had married, but a woman who had suffered and died in her 
early life. And out of her dead self the Verena he knew and loved 
had arisen. Something in her nature which had satisfied his whole 
heart and soul had sprung from the cruel ruin of her childish trust. 
Without that ruined life his Verena might never have been born. 
Through all the storm of wounded love which tore him he realized 
that. 

Suddenly he stooped and looked at her, and a momentary spasm 
of fear shot through him as he saw that she was motionless; and 
then, perhaps for the first time, he realized the struggle which her 
mind had passed through when he saw that her body had sunk into 
the slumber of absolute exhaustion. Weakened by illness, worn 


164 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


out by excitement, she slept as soundly as a child. And Mr. Grey 
thought that the lovely face looked even childlike in its repose. Long 
anxiety, bitter suffering could not yet trace the lines which come so 
easily to an older face. Thinking over the cruel tragedy of her open- 
ing life, remembering the burden she had borne alone so long, the 
man dedicated his life afresh to the woman who was left with him 
alone in the world. To heal Verena’s bruised heart, to make her 
forget, so far as might be, the past, and live with new hopes and joys 
in the future, this should be his task — a task made sweet by the love 
which he could not have withdrawn from her if he would. She was 
so young! Perhaps the brightness of life might yet lie before her. 

Mr. Grey had his reward. And the earnest of that reward came 
to him with the first glance of Verena’s waking eyes. There was no 
cloud between them now. Verena felt as Christian felt when the 
pack fell from his shoulders. No more subterfuges, no more hope- 
less struggles against foes who were too strong for her, no more 
doubt as to whether she dare do this or that without risk of bring- 
ing shame on herself and her husband. He had taken her burden 
on his own shoulders. With a sense of peace she told herself that 
he should guide her for the future. She had only to do his bidding. 

Now for the first time Mr. Grey found it in his power to offer Ye- 
rena such comfort as she could receive. He did not check her de- 
sire to talk of her dead child. Mara’s name should never be a closed 
subject, a sealed book between them. And he felt it was better for 
Verena to speak than always to brood alone over her loss. She bore 
it— as it was her nature to bear all things — well. There was no weak 
indulgence in grief, no vain nursing of sorrow. Yet there were 
hours when she could only be alone to struggle with the masterful 
rebellion of nature against an overwhelming blow, hours when her 
whole being seemed to merge itself in a bitter, voiceless cry for 
Mara. 

Solitude, or her husband’s company 1 She could bear no third al- 
ternative. 

“ I don’t want them,” she would say, when her husband suggested 
Gertie or Emmeline or Mrs. Payn. “ They are very kind, but no one 
knows what Mara was to me but you.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

‘ ‘ Verena,” said Mr. Grey, a few days after her confession, ‘ ‘ would 
it pain you to tell me exactly what passed between you and that man 
at Folkestone?” 

It was the first direct allusion that had been made to Courtenay. 
For anything that had passed between them before, Verena’s destroy- 
er might have been a stranger. 

“I wanted to tell you,” said Verena, with a sad humility in her 
tone. '‘You do not know how I have wanted your help. But I 
could not be the first to speak of him.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


165 


Theu with his arm round her and her head on his shoulder, as it 
had been on that day when she had made her false half-confidence, 
she told him every word that had been spoken in that drawing-room 
at Folkestone. Then she told him of Courtenay’s insolence in the 
refreshment-room at Mrs. Drummond’s reception. He could under- 
stand what Courtenay’s persecution had been to her now. And she 
told him of her fears lest he should discover her Mara’s story. 

Mr. Grey had turned away his face, and was deep in thought. But 
Verena bent forward to look at him; and she scarcely knew her 
husband. 

“James,” she cried, “you would not — ” And she clung to him, 
kissing him wildly. “ I have no one but you. ” 

Mr. Grey’s whole face changed as he looked at her. 

‘ ‘ My love, do you think I would do anything to bring your story 
— or any version they might choose to tell of your story — into every- 
body’s mouth? Your father was right in one thing at least. But 
he might have told me in confidence, ” he added, as if to himself. 

“Would you have married me?” asked Verena, looking with wist- 
ful eyes in his face. 

“Of course I should. I was very much in love,” he said, smiling. 

Was he indeed so sure? But he told himself it was hard if a man 
of his age could not reassure, and, if need were, even deceive a girl 
of three-and-twenty. She had deceived him long enough. Now it 
was his turn, he thought, feeling no remorse for the sort of deceit he 
was practising. 

“Annette knew this,” he said, suddenly. “Do you think her 
husband suspects anything?” 

‘ ‘ No,” said Verena, “lam sure that he knows nothing. He would 
have been glad enough to trade on it, as he did on that old secret of 
my father’s.” And she told him how she had satisfied herself of this. 

‘ ‘ Why, you are a born cross-examiner,” he exclaimed. Then, with 
another sudden thought, 

“But Lisette?” 

“ She did not come to us till my darling was three years old.” 

“Where were you married?” said Mr. Grey; “in the cabin, was 
it not? Who was present?” 

“ Only the man who married us, the captain I thought him.” 

“ And you went on shore immediately?” 

“Yes, directly.” 

“ Good, then,” said Mr. Grey, “you may snap your fingers at Mr. 
Courtenay.” 

Mr. Grey, however, was far from thinking, as he led his wife to 
suppose, that nothing remained to do, and it is probable that, in the 
contest which he contemplated, he found a fierce compensation for 
the pangs which he had undergone. For there had been a moment 
when it seemed as if he were passing from heaven to hell. 

“ I am keeping poor Bird waiting all this time,” he said, after a 
pause. “Now don’t worry yourself any more. Remember every- 
thing is going to come right.” 

In the hall Mr. Grey stopped for a minute. 


166 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


“ What am I in to-day?” he asked. 

“ There’s nothing in the paper, sir, hut the Surrey Hills Water- 
works, and that’s very low down. I don’t think it can be reached.” 

“Who is on the other side?” 

“ Sir Edward, sir, and Mr. Endsleigh.” 

“Mr. Corbet is with me, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Get him to see Sir Edward, and arrange for its standing over, if 
necessary. W e may have to return the briefs, but anyhow I cannot 
attend to it till to-morrow.” 

Mr. Courtenay occupied rooms over a military tailor’s in St. James 
Street. He was breaking his fast with a cup of coffee and brandy 
when Mr. Grey unannounced entered his sitting-room. Something 
in the unceremonious entry reminded him of the day when he had 
invaded Yerena’s room at Folkestone. There seemed a challenge in 
the very act. And Mr. Grey’s first words did not tend to dispel the 
sense of being put on his defence. 

“ I have come to tell you plainly how you stand.” 

‘ ‘ I hardly know what you mean. ” 

“I think you do. You have put yourself within reach of the 
criminal law, and, if necessary, I will bring it down both on you and 
your confederate.” 

Mr. Courtenay had recovered from his first start. True to his code, 
he made it his aim to seem at his ease ; he took a cigarette in his fin- 
gers without lighting it. 

“My confederate,” he said, balancing himself gently in his rock- 
ing-chair, “has got outside of your jurisdiction. He has been dead 
something like two years. ” 

“ I will take your word for it, since I have no means of testing its 
truth.” 

Mr. Courtenay assumed a look of dignified sternness. 

“If he is alive,” Mr. Grey went on, coolly, “ so much the worse 
for you. You will have to pay him for his silence. If he speaks, 
you shall pay me for his chattering.” 

“I don’t mean to offer you my word again,” said Courtenay. 
“ May I ask to what this conversation is tending?” 

“Just to this. You hold a secret, the publication of which might 
destroy both yourself and my innocent wife.” 

Mr. Courtenay assumed another pose. This time it was that of a 
man of the world who claims to be also a man of honor. His ex- 
pression and attitude together said, 

“ I may be bad, but do you think that I would betray a lady?” 

Mr. Grey fully appreciated the obvious comedy, and went on, in a 
tone which perhaps betrayed a little his rising temper, 

“As for your own destruction, that would not grieve me. You 
may go to the devil any way but one. If you were needy enough to 
be bought — ” 

Mr. Courtenay interrupted him. 

“Mr. Grey, you have used language which might justify me in 
throwing you out of the window.” 


A DAtiGtltER OF THE GODS. 


167 


“You must decide on the prudence of that course yourself. I 
Should be sorry to advise you either way.” 

‘ ‘ If there were more equality in our years — 

“ Stay. Now I will venture to offer you a piece of advice. If for 
any reason (I don’t care what) you decide not to attempt to thrash a 
man, don’t pretend that you would like to do it.” 

Mr. Courtenay rose. 

“ Well, Mr. Grey, since it is agreed that we are not to fight — ” 

“Excuse me — if any such agreement has been come to, it is with- 
out my knowledge.” 

“ Well, since for some reason or other— I don’t care what — (to use 
your own phrase) we shall not fight, I see no good in continuing this 
conversation. You have as good as called me a liar.” 

“You are a liar.” 

“ This is intolerable,” cried Courtenay. “I don’t propose to turn 
you out of the room. I shall go out myself.” 

Mr. Grey sprang to the door and put his back against it. The 
rage, jealousy, and deep contempt which had been burning within 
him blazed out suddenly. He bowed his powerful frame as if for a 
spring, with his eyes fixed on those of his antagonist. Those who 
praised Mr. Grey’s light hand with a difficult witness would hardly 
have recognized the white, savage, hard-set face which confronted 
Courtenay. 

For the first time it struck the latter that actual physical danger 
might come of the interview which had been forced upon him. He 
had the ordinary courage of a man, such of it at least as a profiigate 
life had left him, but he had not the nerve to lay his hands on Mr. 
Grey’s collar in the hope of tearing him from the door. Some sec- 
onds must have elapsed while the men stood looking at each other, 
and during this time Mr. Grey recovered his coolness, while Courte- 
nay achieved some appearance of composure. 

“Surely,” he said, “this scene can lead to no good. What is it 
that you want?” 

“Simply to tell you this: By thrusting your presence upon my 
wife, you may insult her and make her miserable. By publishing 
your crime, you might compel me to leave England, and to take her 
where we could live our life in peace under a false name. That I 
am prepared and willing to do if necessary. I am not really much 
afraid that you will ruin yourself. I am much more afraid of your 
keeping her in a state of misery by holding shame over her head. 
Now I mean you to understand this plainly. You know it is not 
worth my while to deceive you, but you can consult any lawyer you 
like.” 

Mr. Courtenay smiled. 

“ I will take your word, Mr. Grey, without qualification.” 

“ Well, take it then. By your mock marriage you have qualified 
yourself for the tread-mill. My wife’s oath would commit you, and I 
would undertake to find sufficient corroborative evidence. All who 
saw something of you at that time are not dead, I suppose. And 
take my word for this too — if ever your crime is revealed, I will 


168 


A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. 


move heaven and earth to secure your punishment. Socially you 
are a dead man if ever that crime is known. I mean to be able to go 
home now and tell my wife that henceforth she need fear you no 
more than if you were actually dead.” 

“If that is all, I pledge you my word, if you think it necessary.” 

“I think some sort of security necessary. I don’t care three 
straws for your word, I rely on your fears. I believe that you will 
trust my word. 

Mr. Courtenay turned and walked back to his chair, shrugging his 
shoulders. 

“Remember,” said Mr. Grey, “I will do everything that I say.” 
He closed the door quietly and ran down the stairs. 

“Now, dear,” he said to his wife, entering her room not half an 
hour afterwards, “I must be off to court. I have left a junior on 
guard, and I must relieve him.” 

“ I thought you were in court.” 

“ No, I went to see your enemy. Do not be frightened,” he said, 
laughing at Yerena’s face. “I have not murdered him. I have 
only told him that I have got his neck in a noose, and that if he 
teases you it shall be tightened. That is all.” 


1885. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Early summer has come round again, and Yerena is staying for 
the first time at “The Cottage. ” Graver, though more peaceful than 
she was a year ago, she is looking from her little drawing - room 
across the lawn. Emmeline, who is a great authority on drawing- 
rooms, is putting the last touches to the arrangement of its furniture. 

Bertie and Gertie have come down for the day, and might be 
standing for a picture of “Lovers.” Their tennis is obviously but 
a pretext for the real business of their lives. 

“I am glad there is to b^e a term to their engagement,” said Ye- 
rena. 

“ Yes, we shall soon get rid of them.” Emmeline’s voice showed 
that she felt this a relief. 

“ Aunt Kate will miss Gertie.” 

“Oh, not now she has me. And I don’t intend to marry at pres- 
ent, though, as you know, I could have young Moffat, if I chose to 
lift my little finger. But I’m very comfortable with Aunt Kate. 
And I suit her quite as well as Gertie does; a great deal better than 
Kate — I’m sure she might be a changeling.” 

‘ ‘ Poor Kate, she would like to have been here to-day. But Mr. 
Farquhar hates the country, and he is too fond of Kate to bear her 
out of his — reach,” said Yerena, substituting a word for “ sight.” 

“ Mr. Farquhar likes his own way. He keeps a pretty tight hand 
over Kate in most things. Did I tdl you, Yerena? he will not let 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS. 


169 


her visit Mrs. Clifton since that foolish scandal about her and young 
Drummond in the winter. Kate was dreadfully put out at it. She 
would have stuck to Mrs. Clifton through thick and thin.” 

“Poor Mrs. Clifton, I never liked her; but I don’t suppose there 
was anything in that story. I hope you don’t regret her acquaint- 
ance.” 

“Ko, indeed. I am so glad James would not let me get intimate 
with her. ” 

“You think Kate is happy, don’t you?” 

‘ ‘ Oh yes ! Kate was always a grumbler. She calls herself a slave, 
and says she has sold herself to a life-long boredom. But they keep 
a good deal of company, and Kate gets plenty of fun out of her life. 
Mr. Farquhar does not let her spend his money, though, ” said Em- 
meline, with some satisfaction. 

“Farquhar is a very good fellow,” said Mr. Grey, suddenly com- 
ing in at the window. Verena jumped up and ran to him like a 
pleased child. 

“ I thought you had missed your train; you are so late.” 

Mr. Grey took her in his arms and scrutinized her face, as he said, 
anxiously, 

“What have you been doing? Not tiring yourself, I hope.” 

“No, indeed,” said Emmeline; “ Yerena has been sitting with her 
hands before her while I arranged everything. I don’t think she 
could have made the room look like this,” she added, with a proud 
glance round. 

Verena had thrown herself back in her light chair with a mental 
resolve to remove some of Emmeline’s superfluous decorations by- 
and-by. 

“ Call those young people in to tea,” she says, when a new-comer 
diverts her attention. 

Lisette appears in the veranda, displaying a very beautiful pelisse, 
in which the initiated might detect a baby. 

“Will my little daughter come to me?” says Mr, Grey, holding 
out his arms rather doubtfully. 

But his little daughter promptly turns her back upon him and 
buries her face in Lisette’s shoulder. 

“Oh, baby, baby,” cries Yerena, holding out her own arms. 

The baby turns at her voice, makes a wide mouth which does 
duty for a smile, utters a gurgling sound which the mother calls a 
coo, and with a leap expressive of satisfaction transfers itself to its 
mother’s arms. The little Gabrielle at present recognizes but two in- 
dividuals in the world, and Yerena is the more favored of the two. 

“Now kiss Aunt Emmie,” says Yerena, trying to show off her 
offspring. 

But the baby refuses to offer the wet, wide-open mouth which she 
is always ready to yield to her mother’s caresses. She turns her 
back on her aunt with even more marked repugnance than she has 
shown to her father; she clings convulsively with both arms round 
her mother’s neck. How different from the winning child who is 
lying under the roses across the sea! Even as a baby Mara would 


170 


A DAUGHTER OP THE GODS* 


laiigli and crow, and hold out more or less willing arms to every 
new-comer. But Verena does not love this one less for the differ- 
ence. Even now she could scarcely have borne rivalry with her 
lost idol. She often thinks with a heartache what a tender little 
mother her own Mara would have made to the little intruder. This 
frail little creature which had, for the first few months, clung to a 
mere thread of life with feeble persistency, had perhaps twined itself 
round the mother’s heart more securely than a strong, promising 
child could have done. This had been a most exacting baby: she 
had kept all around her watchful and anxious, she had scarcely left 
room even for grief. 

“ She has been so delicate, poor little darling,” says Yerena, apolo- 
getically; “but she is growing strong now,” she adds, with a wistful 
look at the small face which is peering rather uneasily at Emmeline. 

“She is growing pretty too,” says Lisette, who is the baby’s 
stanch champion; “ she will be like madame.” 

Mr. Grey receives this suggestion with some derision. But per- 
haps Lisette is right. The fair fragile little creature may yet blos- 
som into a likeness of her beautiful mother. 

“She will never be half so pretty as dear little Mara,” says Em- 
meline, who does not think much of Yerena’s baby. 

“No,” says Mr. Grey; and his tone is as the tone of a father 
mourning for his dead child. “We cannot expect another child to 
be equal to our lost darling.” 

Yerena’s eyes are full of tears, but she looks at him gratefully. 
No praise of the living can ever be so sweet to her as this tribute to 
the memory of the dead. 


THE END. 


UPLAND AND MEADOW. 

A Poaetquissings Chronicle. By Chaeles C. Abbott, 
M.D. pp. x.,398. 12rao, Ornamental Cloth, $1 50. 

Dr. Abbott studies most delightfully the question of whether birds re- 
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diary remarkably full of interest and with many delightfully poetical hab- 
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We commend this book as inspiring, refreshing, and delightful in its 
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The author has a faculty for using his eyes and ears to excellent advan- 
tage in his rambles over “ Upland and Meadow,” and a very entertaining 
way of recording what he sees and hears. ... It is worth reading indeed. 
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Times. 

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the author discourses with the greatest charm of style about wood and 
stream, marsh-wrens, the spade-foot toad, summer, winter, trumpet-creepers 
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passes by without notice. . . . The book may be heartily commended to 
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lish. — Saturday Evening Gazette,, Boston. 


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A MEMOIR OF MRS. EDWARD LIVINGSTON, 


With Letters hitherto Unpublished. By Louise Living- 
ston Hunt. pp. 182. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 

The romantic and interesting career of a remarkable woman. — iV. K 
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A delightful book of reminiscences of a lady well known in the fashiona- 
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A volume issued in memory of a noble woman, and of a historic family. 
The letters of which it is largely composed are valuable contributions to 
the literature of a period, and in themselves are of a most charming char- 
acter. — N. Y Journal of Commerce. 

A very enlightening record of a very interesting woman. ... A great 
many important side-lights are thrown upon the society and politics of 
Louisiana at the opening of the present century. . . . The book is really a 
treasure. — Hartford Post. 

Mrs. Livingston’s life was full of adventure, and she was an observer 
of the great events in Louisiana in the beginning of this century, and in 
our national affairs. The memoir and the letters it contains show that 
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Livingston’s accomplished wife, whose youth was marked by thrilling 
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the most brilliant women in the best American society, deserved a memo- 
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Mrs. Livingston was by birth, education, and temperament adapted to 
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BEMUR: A TALE OF THE CHRIST. 


By Lew. Wallace. New Edition, pp. 552. 16mo, 

" Cloth, $1 50. 

Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of this 
romance does not often appear in works of fiction. . . . Some of Mr. Wal- 
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From the opening of the volume to the very close the reader’s interest 
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or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


UPON A CAST 


A Novel. By Charlotte Dunning, pp. 330. 16mo, 

Cloth, $1 00. 

It embodies throughout the expressions of genuine American frank- 
ness, is well conceived, well managed, and brought to a delightful 
and captivating close. — Albany Press. 

The author writes this story of American social life in an interest 
ing manner. . . . The style of the writing is excellent, and the dia 
logie clever. — N. Y. Times. 

This story is strong in plot, and its characters are drawn with a 
firm and skilful hand. They seem like real people, and their acts 
and words, their fortunes and misadventures, are made to engage the 
reader’s interest and sympathy. — Worcester Daily Spy. 

The character painting is very well done. . . . The sourest cynic 
that ever sneered at woman cannot but find the little story vastly 
entertaining. — Commercial Bulletin, Boston. 

The life of a semi-metropolitan village, with its own aristocracy, 
gossips, and various other qualities of people, is admirably por- 
trayed. . . . The book fascinates the reader from the first page to 
the last. — Boston Traveller. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the charac- 
ters — all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance— are por- 
trayed with great distinctness. The book is written in an entertain- 
ing and vivacious style, and is destined to provide entertainment for 
a large number of readers. — Christian at Work, N. Y. 

One of the best — if not the very best— of the society novels of the 
season. — Detroit Free Press. 

Of peculiar interest as regards plot, and with much grace and 
freshness of style. — Brooklyn Times. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the characters 
— all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance — are portrayed 
with great distinctness. —Episcopal Becorder, Philadelphia. 

A clever and entertaining novel. It is wholly social, and the 
theatre is a small one ; but the characters are varied and are drawn 
with a firm hand ; the play of human passion and longing is well- 
defined and brilliant ; and the movement is effective and satisfac- 
tory. . . . The love story is as good as the social study, making alto- 
^her an uncommonly entertaining book for vacation reading. — 
Wilmington (Del.) Morning News. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Habpeb & Bbothkrs will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to 
uny part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


ATLA 


A Story of the Lost Island. By Mrs. J. Gregory Smith, 
Author of “Dawn to Sunrise,” etc. pp. 284. 16mo, 

Extra Cloth, $1 00. 

A new history of the fabled Atlantis, in many particulars far exceeding 
in interest those which have gone before it on the same theme. It is de- 
lightful reading either for a winter evening or a summer’s holiday, and 
ought to have a wide circulation. — N. V. Journal of Commerce. 

A tale that reads like one of reality. All who are curious on the sub- 
ject will be fascinated by the fiction, and by its polished style of compo- 
sition. — Philadelphia Bulletin. 

An extremely clever picture of life as it might have been on the island 
of Atlantis. — Rochester Morning Herald. 

An exceedingly ingenious and clever tale, that has at once the charm 
of mystery and romance. — N. Y Graphic. 

The style is full of charm, and the characters are depicted with equal 
skill and vividness. Readers of refined taste will find the book of abound- 
ing interest. — Saturday Evening Gazette., Boston. 

It is like a fairy story in interest and in the oriental magnificence of its 
imagery, while not differing from history in the sober plausibility of the 
narrative presented. It is an exquisite psodict of the borderland that 
lies between fact and fancy. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

The merit of the romance is marked ; under the guise of fiction it teaches 
this, that the more we study the civilization of the remote past the more 
wonderful it appears to us to be. — N. Y. Times. 

A very interesting story. The subject is peculiarly adapted to all that 
play of imagination and rich fancy which is calculated to invest this legend 
with so much of charm and interest. Mrs. Smith has employed these 
most excellently in the telling of her story, which the reader will find to 
be a very charming and fascinating one. — Christian at TFbrX;, N. Y. 

A romance which has many elements which will charm the reader. 
Mrs. Smith succeeds in producing many striking, eloquent passages, and 
carries on her whole story evenly, and with force and skill. “ Atla ” will 
make the author’s name known to a thousand readers to one who knew 
“ Leola ” or “ Selma.” — Brooklyn Union. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Harper & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to any 
part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


AT THE RED GLOYE 


-A Novel. Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart, pp. 246. 
12mo, Extra Cloth, $1 50. 


We have tried to express our admiration of the brilliant talents which 
the “ Red Glove ” displays — the accurate knowledge shown of localities ; 
the characteristics of the surrounding population, and the instinctive read- 
ing of the inner selves of the various personages who figure in the story. . . . 
A charming idyl. — W. Y. Mail and Express. 

The execution is admirable. . . . The characters are the clearest studies, 
and are typical of a certain phase of French life. . . . The story is fanciful, 
graceful, and piquant, and Reinhart’s illustrations add to its flavor. — Bos- 
ton Journal. 

The peculiar vivacity of the French style is blended with a subtle char- 
acter-analysis that is one of the best things in that line that has been pro- 
duced for a long time. It is one of the most brilliant pieces of literary 
work that has appeared for years, and the interest is sustained almost 
breathlessly. — Boston Evening Traveller. 

The authoress of “At the Red Glove” knows how to paint a flesh-and- 
blood woman, grateful to all the senses, and respectable for the qualities 
of her mind and heart. . . . All in all, “ At the Red Glove ” is one of the 
most delightful of novels since Miss Woolson wrote “For the Major.” — 
N. Y. Times. 

The novel is one of the best things of the summer as a delicious bit of 
entertainment, prepared with perfect art and presented without a sign of 
effort. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

It is an artistic and agreeable reproduction, in bright colors, of French 
sentiment and feeling. ... It is an abiding relief to read it, after such 
studies as novels in this country fashionably impose. — Boston Globe. 

A charming little story. . . . The characters are well drawn, with fresh- 
ness and with adequacy of treatment, and the style is crisp and ofttimes 
trenchant. — Boston Advertiser. 

A very pretty story, simply and exquisitely told. . . . The ups and downs 
of the courtship are drawn with a master’s hand. — Cincinnati Inquirer. 

There has been no such pleasant novel of Swiss social life as this. . . . 
The book is one that tourists and summer idlers will do well to add to 
their travelling libraries for the season. — Philadelphia Bulletin. 


Published by HARPER k BROTHERS, New York. 

The above work sent by mail^ postage prepaid, to any part of the United States 
or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


LATEST PUBLICATIONS 

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THE LABOR PROBLEM. Plain Questions and Practical Answers. Ed- 
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ECONOMICS FOR THE PEOPLE. Being Plain Talks on Economics, 
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